The price of friendship
by cdrdobes
Summary: When McCormick tries to help a friend, he becomes a pawn in a plot to destroy not only his life, but that of the man he loves and respects the most...Milton C. Hardcastle. He must then pay any price..even the ultimate price to protect the Judge.


"_**The Price of Friendship"**_

_**Chapter One **_

Glancing at his watch, Mark McCormick set the two suitcases he was carrying down and watched as Hardcastle checked his plane tickets for the third time in ten minutes . " Hey Judge, we'd better hurry if you want to get to the airport on time to catch your plane!"

"McCormick, why don't you throw a few things in a suitcase and come with me, we'll have a great time. I'm sure we can pick up an extra ticket."

"Judge, I'm sorry but the New Orleans Jazz Festival is just **NOT** my style. You and the Jazz Masters go and have a good time. Besides, I have some work to do on the Coyote that I'd like to get to, Mark justified

"I wish you'd humor me kid. I don't like the idea of leaving you here all alone!"

"Aw, come on Judge, I'm a big boy! I can keep an eye on the place for a couple of days, or don't you trust me?"

Picking up a suitcase, Mark headed for the door waiting for a reply. When none was forthcoming, he froze in his tracks and turned to face Hardcastle.

"**That's it**! You really **DON'T **trust me!" His voice rose accusingly.

"Calm down McCormick, it's not like that! It's just that I don't like the idea of leaving **ANYONE** all alone. What if something would happen?"

"What could happen?" Mark asked expectantly.

"How should I know!" The Judge replied, his voice rising defensively. "The place could burn down, or you could get yourself drowned in the pool, or….or….you could fall down the stairs and break your neck…..Then what!"

Mark studied the Judge trying to see if he were REALLY serious. Smiling, he said, "Well…..then I guess I would have to lay there and holler, "I've FALLEN and I CAN'T get up!"

"Oh you're a regular comedian McCormick! Only you could find that commercial funny! You'd laugh at a broken arm!"

"Judge, I **CANNOT** believe you're serious! I'm thirty years old and you're afraid to leave me alone! Where's all this concern when I'm getting shot at, and run over, and beat up?"

"**THAT'S** different McCormick, because I'm around then to bail you out when you get yourself in trouble." The Judge smiled as he opened the door and held it for McCormick carrying the suitcases.

"**WHAT**!" Mark exclaimed as he froze in his tracks. You have GOT to be kidding! Judge…sometimes I wonder who's side you're on!"

"OK, McCormick. Have it your way. If you want to miss out on a unique cultural experience like the New Orleans Jazz festival so you can stay here and play grown up…go right ahead." The Judge grumbled climbing into the truck and slamming the door. "Just make sure you keep yourself out of trouble while I'm gone"

Tossing the two suitcases into the bed of the truck, Mark climbed behind the wheel. "**Trust me,** Judge, everything will be fine"

As they turned from the driveway onto the main road, Hardcastle pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket. "Here's a list of jobs to keep you busy while I'm gone"

"Gee thanks, Judge! I appreciate that. I wouldn't have known what to do with my time! Of course it's won't be the same without all of your helpful hints and supervision."

"Be serious, McCormick! This is important. I want the place looking good for Judge Walsh's retirement party next week, so I want you to get the grounds in order for me."

"No problem, Judge, now just concentrate on having a good time and don't worry about anything else.

Looking at his list, Hardcastle continued. "Wash and wax the truck for me, and don't use one of those automatic places, they don't do a good job."

"Okay, Judge, I'll do it the old fashioned, tried and true method. No modern conveniences for us!" Mark smiled.

"And tell the pool man when he comes to put in some of that algae stuff in this time."

"I'll tell him, Judge"

"And if you need anything, there's some money on my desk"

"Okay, Judge."

"And take care of yourself while I'm gone McCormick!" He said with some exasperation.

"I will, Judge"

"And no parties"

"No, Judge"

"And eat some **decent **food for a change, not that junk food you like to stuff down your throat."

Pulling over to the curb at the airport entrance, Mark parked the truck and lifted the suitcases out of the bed handing them to Hardcastle. "Judge, I think you'd better go now, cause if you stay any longer I'm afraid I'm gonna hear how I should wear clean underwear in case I get in an accident!"

"Okay kid, if you're not going to take any of this serious, I guess I'll be on my way. I'll see you in a couple of days" Hardcastle said giving Mark a pat on the shoulder. "Just take care of everything McCormick." With that, he gathered his bags and entered the main terminal building, greeting the rest of the Jazz masters assembled there.

Mark watched him go, shaking his head in amazement, slightly embarrassed at Hardcastle's concern but deep down very pleased that for the first time in a very long while…. he had someone who cared what happened to him.

_**Chapter two**_

Driving from the airport, Mark savored the feeling of freedom. "Five days alone", he smiled to himself. No orders and No one to boss me around. Of course there was the little matter of the Judge's list of chores, but that would be no problem. After all, he had five days! Mark planned on getting that list out of the way in short order and having plenty of time to enjoy himself.

Stopping briefly at burger world, Mark ordered what he was sure Hardcastle meant by some "decent food". Who after all, he thought, could not enjoy the smell of hot grease drifting from a drive-up window? Rolling down the window of the truck to enjoy the beautiful breeze coming off of the ocean, Mark ate his dinner feeling very content and comfortable. Then, wiping the traces of grease off of Hardcastle's dashboard, he drove off and started down Pacific Coast Highway. Popping Hardcastle's Benny Goodman tape out of the tape player, he tossed It into the glove compartment and replaced it with one of his favorite tapes. Feeling like a kid out of school, he pumped up the volume, nudged his speed up to just over the limit and cruised down the highway without a care in the world. The only element detracting from his overall enjoyment was the fact that he was driving the Judge's truck, rather than the Coyote. Well…he promised himself, he would have to find time for a drive sometime after his work was done.

Entering the drive at Gull's way, Mark took a mental inventory of just what kind of work lay ahead of him to get the grounds in order for the Judge's party. Keeping up with the work at a place like Gull's Way was certainly no picnic. It seemed as though there was a never ending, steady stream of work to do just to keep the place looking decent. Several cases he and the Judge had been preoccupied with lately had caused him to get slightly behind on some of the work. Right now, the grass needed cut, the hedges trimmed, driveways and walkways edged, and some of the statues needed a coat of paint. Even the gate at the entrance needed some work. With only a week left until the Judge's party, Mark knew he would have to hustle to get the place looking good. There was no way the work would be completed by the time the Judge returned in five days, but he hoped to make a fair amount of improvement in that time. Now however, the sun was beginning to set so he would have to postpone the work until tomorrow.

Pulling the truck around to the back, Mark parked it beside the Coyote and glancing skyward, knew there would be no need to use the garage tonight. The sky was clear, with no trace of rainclouds.

Passing through the house just long enough to grab a cold beer, bag of chips and the portable TV, Mark was struck by the unfamiliar stillness in the house. Letting the screen door slam behind him and half expecting to hear Hardcastle admonish him for it, he headed for the patio and with a sigh, collapsed into a lawn chair. Setting his beer down, he noticed the warmth rising from the sun warmed bricks. It mingled pleasantly with the cooler evening air.

Watching the sun dip below the horizon over the pacific, he turned on the TV, strangely disappointed that this evening, there was no one with whom to argue about what to watch. Oddly, Mark felt that suddenly something was missing from his life. He wondered what the Judge was doing at this particular moment in time.

_**Chapter Three**_

Dining in a fine restaurant, surrounded by some of his oldest friends, Milton C. Hardcastle knew he should be enjoying himself. Why then, had he had this nagging feeling since settling into his seat on the plane that this trip was not a good idea? It was not, he assured himself, that he didn't trust McCormick. Hell….he'd trusted him with his life on more than one occasion! Still though….he had a persistent feeling that something was going to go wrong. Although he was not one to believe much in ESP and precognition, the feeling still troubled him. He had to admit that throughout his career, both as a cop and later a judge, he had, from time to time been forced to rely heavily on intuition and had become quite adept at reading and trusting it. "Then again, Milt," He thought to himself, "maybe the kid's right and you're getting overly cautious in your old age."

As the meal was served, the Judge tried to push his worries aside and enjoy his trip. Maybe after a good night's sleep, things will look a little brighter, he thought to himself.

_**Chapter four**_

The crystal blue water in the pool reflected the morning sunlight like a million glittering jewels.

Mark floated dreamily on his favorite raft, drinking in another perfect California Morning. He dangled one leg in the deliciously cool water. All thoughts of hedge trimming, grass cutting, and painting were gently nudged to the back of his mind by his currently relaxed mood. "Never do today what you can put off till tomorrow." He chuckled to himself, and with that thought a broad smile spread across his face. This was actually the second day of relaxation that Mark had taken, feeling as though he also deserved a short vacation of sorts. The three days left before the Judge returned would give him plenty of time to get the lion's share of the work accomplished if he really pushed himself. Gazing through his mirrored sunglasses, Mark studied the lazy white clouds drifting across the blue summer sky.

Summer…..The word somehow held less importance here in California than it had back in Jersey, where the change in seasons was so apparent. "it never rains in southern California", so the song says, " and it don't ever, ever snow either !" Mark smiled to himself.

Once more, he marveled at the twist of fate that had brought him to live at Gull's Way. One year ago, he thought, "I would have been in the prison yard for the morning exercise period, and let me tell you, that's a **universe** away from where I am now! "

But more important than the material things he now enjoyed, Mark thought about his relationship with the Judge. A relationship that had started out strained at best.

Strained…..the understatement of the century! The day old Hardcase had sentenced him to prison, Mark had felt a distinct dislike for the man, which he believed he would never lose.

Slowly…..very slowly in the past year, Mark had learned to trust the Judge and feel something else.

Though he would never admit it aloud, Mark had developed a great respect and genuine feeling of affection for Hardcastle. He could now easily see through the gruff exterior that he presented to the rest of the world, to the real Judge Milton C Hardcastle, a man of honesty, integrity, and most importantly, compassion.

Although you could by **no**means say that the two of them always saw eye to eye, Mark was beginning to see the Judge as the Father figure that he had never known.

"Whoa, boy! Now you're getting down right sappy," Mark thought, and took that moment to slide off the raft into the water. Feeling a pleasant rush as his sun-warmed body slid beneath the surface, Mark dove to the bottom of the pool, stretching to touch the metal drain grate on the bottom, then shot to the surface.

All good things must come to an end, Mark thought as he swam to the side and climbed out of the pool. Grabbing a towel, he began to dry off while surveying the work that lay ahead.

Not thrilled at the prospect of spending the rest of the day doing yard work, he couldn't help thinking longingly of some of the things he would rather do. Resignedly, he tossed the towel over one shoulder and headed for the house. Nearing the screen door, the faint sound of someone persistently ringing the front doorbell could be heard. Passing through the house, Mark ran through a mental checklist of possible visitors as he neared the door. As he swung the door open, he was amazed to see the last person on earth he would have expected.

"Alex….is that you ?" For a long moment, Mark couldn't be a hundred percent certain.

The Alex he had known in prison was a timid, mousy kid, far too soft to survive in that environment. The kind of kid hard pressed to survive in school let alone prison. In the short time Mark had known Alex, he had watched him deteriorate before his eyes as he endured beatings and abuse at the hands of some of societies lowest sub-human cast offs.

The Alex before him now was like a new person, neat, well dressed, and most surprisingly…confident.

"Come on Skid, aren't you even gonna invite me in?" Alex asked casually, leaning against the doorjamb.

"Sorry, Alex", Mark stammered, "it's just that I'm surprised to see you. Come on in." Closing the door behind them, Mark turned once again to face Alex, feeling like he'd seen a ghost. Mark remembered all the nights he and Alex had sat in the dark cell, exchanging memories and making plans for the future. Alex had been a good cellmate and a good friend.

"Alex….I can't believe it's really you. When did you get out and how'd you know where to find me?"

" I finally made parole and heard it through the grapevine about your good fortune here." Surveying their surroundings, Alex whistled. "You really hit the jackpot, buddy!"

"Well"…Mark laughed, "Livin with old Hardcase ain't always a bed of roses but it's not all bad."

"Mark McCormick…. living with a **Judge**!" Alex chuckled, " I **never**thought I'd see that day!"

" Yeah well, stranger things have happened I guess," Mark said toweling off his hair. "Listen Alex, I just got out of the pool. Why don' t you make yourself at home while I change."

"No problem, Skid. I think I could get used to this." Alex said as he sank into Hardcastle's favorite chair causing Mark to cringe slightly.

As Mark left the room, Alex listened to his footsteps retreating down the hallway. Silently, he rose from the chair and quickly made his way to the Judge's study, remembering the floor plans he had studied so carefully ahead of time. Quickly, he completed his mission and returned to his chair.

_**Chapter Five**_

As Mark showered and dressed, he thought about the last time he had seen Alex, severely beaten and on his way to the prison infirmary. Though he had tried repeatedly to check on Alex's condition, no information had been available. He had later heard that Alex had been mysteriously transferred to another facility. Mark had often wondered what had become of Alex, hoping for the best but somehow, fearing the worst.

In the short time they had known one another, they had hit it off well, and Mark had enjoyed talking to Alex when he could. Alex was one of the few people in prison that he could relate to at all, and he felt that beneath the quiet, timid exterior was an honest person who could be trusted….. a victim of circumstance perhaps, like himself. Alex was also one of the few people in prison with whom one could converse in something other than two syllable words and grunt, by far more intelligent than your average San Quentin inmate. Mark was pleased that somehow, after all this time, he should run into Alex. Once again, he marveled at the strange twists of fate that affect one's life.

Returning to the den, Mark found Alex by the window, taking in the view of the grounds.

"Skid , old buddy, I can't get over this place! No job to go to, all the time in the world on your hands, and a place like this to hang out. You must feel like you died and went to heaven!"

"Yeah, well….I may not have to punch a time clock Alex, but **believe** me, I have **plenty**of work to keep me busy." Feeling strangely defensive, Mark gestured out the window. "Who do you think has to take care of all that out there?"

"Come to think of it….living with a Judge wouldn't exactly be my idea of heaven" Alex agreed. "I bet Hardcastle treats you like a slave!"

"Well ,…. Mark said "Let's just say that old Hardcase **strongly** believes in the "idle hands are the devil's workshop" philosophy", so he makes sure that my hands are **never** idle." Even as he said it, Mark couldn't help feeling slightly guilty that he wasn't painting an entirely truthful picture of the Judge.

Somehow, talking again with someone from his prison days, seemed to bring back the old, " me against the system" attitude that he had felt so strongly at that time.

Changing the subject, Mark started toward the kitchen. "How bout a beer Alex?"

"No, I got a**better** idea!" Alex beamed. "Why don't we take a drive up the coast? A friend of mine's been holding on to some of my stuff while I was in the joint and I gotta get it back."

Stopping in the doorway, Mark turned to face his friend. "I'm sorry Alex, I can't go right now. Take another look out that window. I've got a ton of work to do out there and the Judge is coming back in three days"

"Aw come on Skid! Do me a favor for old time sake. I was counting on you, I don't have anyone else!"

"Alex, you know you're not even supposed to be talking to another ex-con while you're on parole." Mark justified.

"No one's gonna see us Skid! It'll be alright." Alex pleaded. "when we get back, I'll help you with your work. It won't take long!"

Suddenly, all of the confidence visible moments ago vanished . In it's place was a look of troubled desperation in Alex's dark eyes.

Mark studied his friend silently for a long moment. "This is really important to you isn't it?"

"Trust me…you'll be a real life saver if you go with me. I don't have a car yet and I spent all the money I had on the cab fare here." Alex begged.

Gazing out the window at the work he should have started yesterday, Mark was torn between doing what he knew was right, and wanting to help a friend in need.

After a long pause, he sighed resignedly and turned to face Alex. "Okay, I'll take you but we have to make this quick. Come on down to the gatehouse so I can grab my wallet and keys"

Giving a cursory glance around the house to see that things were alright, Mark and Alex headed for the gatehouse and were gone.

With other things on his mind, Mark took no notice of the dark sedan parked just a stone's throw from the entrance gate as he turned onto the pacific coast highway. As the Coyote faded from sight, the driver of the sedan turned the ignition key and pulled into the drive. After Just a few moments work on the automatic gate, he gained entrance to Gull's Way.

_**Chapter Six**_

Cruising down the open road in the Coyote, Mark gazed at the blue Pacific, sparkling in the sunlight far below the cliffs. A drive like this couldn't help but relax you and help put things in perspective, he thought as he made a conscience effort to hold his speed down. Feeling free as a bird, he was suddenly confident that this little outing of Alex's would cause no problems.

Glancing his friend's way, Mark puzzled at his suddenly quiet, pensive mood. Alex had never been an easy person to read. A very bright kid, he was also a very complex individual, sometimes so involved with his inner thoughts that he seemed unreachable.

In Prison, Alex had always seemed eager to live vicariously through Mark's stories of his racing days, yet…..here he was, riding in a one of a kind dream machine and his mind seemed to be on another planet.

As they drove, Mark wondered who had changed, he or Alex. I seemed as though now, out of prison, they no longer shared any common interests. All attempts at conversation by Mark were met with brooding silence.

Driving more hours than he cared to think about wasting, Mark couldn't help but feel resentful at being suckered into what seemed to amount to little more than cab service. Alex had barely spoken more than two words on the whole trip and Mark was, by now tiring of his sullen, moody attitude. He made a mental note to get back to Gull's Way as soon as possible.

"So Alex…what is it you have to get back so urgently from this guy anyway?"

"Well, mainly my camera gear", Alex answered, not looking Mark's way

" A camera!" Mark turned to look at Alex. "We had to rush off like our ass was on fire to get your camera?"

"Well", …..Alex glanced at Mark, then looked away . "Remember me telling you that I was into photography when I was a kid?"

"Yeah, I remember. You said you were pretty good at it. Won some awards or something"

"Yeah, I won a scholarship with a photo essay I did…..only I got in trouble and went to prison instead of college. They gave it to someone else."

"For the first time on their trip, Alex seemed to focus his thoughts and respond at all to Mark's questions."

Pausing to collect his thoughts, Alex continued. " I have a chance at a job with an insurance company in L.A. taking pictures…and I have to have my own gear. I'm supposed to meet this guy tonight."

Once again, Alex's demeanor changed to one of worry, and hesitation.

"I don't know Alex, that sounds like a **real** long shot. Are you sure that this deal's on the up and up?"

"What makes you think it isn't?" Alex bristled.

"Well…..for one thing, I knew a guy who worked for an insurance company and he used a Polaroid camera. They didn't have a photographer, and even if they did, why would they hire an ex-con fresh out of prison?"

"Aw come on Skid, don't hassle me about this. You got a shot at something good in your life, why don't I deserve a chance too?"

"Okay Alex, have it your way but don't come cryin to me when you get burned."

The rest of the trip was made in silence, with Alex once more withdrawing into his own world and Mark left to brood about the probability that his friend was being conned by some slick opportunist.

The last leg of their way too long journey, led them down several back country roads better suited for a 4 wheel drive vehicle than the Coyote. As he picked his way slowly around ruts and potholes, Mark added the possibility of serious damage to the Coyote's suspension and undercarriage to his growing list of woes.

Making the final turn onto a yet smaller road, they passed a sign saying, "Skylor Murphy's Air School, flying lessons, skydiving, plane rides, charters." The sign was crude and amateurish. Pulling to a stop in front of a large pole building which might pass for a hanger, Mark idled the Coyote as if uncertain as to whether he really wanted to stay….even for a few minutes.

"Well…." He said absentmindedly as he took in their surroundings. " I guess we're here."

Off to the right was a ramshackle trailer which served as an office. Quite possibly, from the looks of the junk laying about, it served as living quarters as well.

Reading the various signs on the door, Mark wondered if Skylor Murphy's planes were in any better shape than the rest of the place.

Easing himself out of the Coyote and stretching comfortably after the long drive, Mark noticed with dismay the thick coating of dust covering his beloved car. Add a thorough wash and wax job to his growing list of chores thanks to the back country roads they'd just covered.

"Does this guy know you're coming?" Mark asked studying the various junkers parked near the trailer trying to determine if any of them were currently being driven. "It doesn't look like anyone's here."

"He's probably in the hanger", Alex answered, heading for the door.

With a weary sigh, Mark leaned against the Coyote. It would just be too ironic to have wasted so much precious time and driven all this way for nothing. As the minutes ticked by, he glanced at his watch. With a sinking feeling, he realized that he would most probably get back to the estate too late to begin any of the work waiting for him there.

Just as he was beginning to think that Alex was not coming back, he heard the whine of an automatic garage door. Slowly, the large door at the front of the hanger opened. Inside, Alex chatted with a tall lanky kid, probably in his late twenties. At their feet sat a metal camera case and a small duffel bag.

Probably everything Alex owned in the world, Mark thought.

Glancing his way, Alex waved. "Hey, Mark! Come on over here and meet Sky!"

Walking toward the hanger, Mark took note of the neat, orderly appearance of the interior, a stark contrast to the squalid conditions on the outside. Tools, neatly organized on the walls, nothing out of place, and the center attraction, a new looking, twin engine plane. It's appearance was flawless,…..clean and polished like a gemstone on display in an museum. It wasn't difficult to see where this guy's priorities lay. Flying must be his whole world.

Mark thought back to his racing days when he would have sacrificed all the creature comforts in the world for a good ride. Hell…..he'd sacrificed a part of his life for his cars. He suppressed a shudder remembering those years in prison.

Skylor Murphy wiped his grease covered hands on equally greasy coveralls, and extended a hand. As they shook hands, Mark noticed to his surprise that face to face, Skylor Murphy appeared to be even younger than he'd originally guessed. His thin lanky frame and unruly blond curls gave him the appearance of little more than a boy.

"Quite some plane you got there." Mark nodded toward the glistening, blue and white aircraft.

"Yeah, she's a beauty alright," Skylor blushed modestly, " I'm lucky to have her"

"Sky's old man flew a chopper in Nam." Alex added. "He's been flying since he was just a kid"

"Never thought I'd be flyin a bird like that though!" Sky gazed lovingly at the plane.

"Yeah well you get lucky once in awhile, "Mark said as he glanced out at the Coyote.

Picking up the camera case, Alex handed it to Mark. "Get this for me Skid. I'll get my bag"

Obligingly, he took the case and headed for the car. "Yeah, it's getting late, we gotta be headin' back."

On a bluff above the shabby airfield, two men became suddenly alert.

"This is it!" one of the men said, focusing the powerful 1200-millimeter zoom.

Following his subject from the hanger to the Red sports car, he snapped a series of photos that would change Mark McCormick's life forever. Pausing briefly at the car, Mark passed the case in to Alex, got in and drove off sending up a fresh cloud of dust to settle on the grimy surroundings.

When the Coyote had faded from sight until just a glimmer of red could be seen in the distance, the two men quickly packed up their camera and tripod and without another word to one another….drove away.

_**Chapter Seven**_

"What's the matter, Milt; you afraid the kid made off with the family silver?" Harry McNally laughed loudly as he slapped Hardcastle on the back nearly knocking the phone from his grasp.

"No, I'm not afraid of anything of the kind!" The Judge growled, already irritated at the endless ringing on the other end of the receiver.

"Come on kid, pick up the phone will ya?" He mumbled half under his breath, visualizing a multitude of disasters which could have befallen McCormick.

"Come on Milt, what could have happened? He's a big boy, he can take care of himself.

"Yeah, I know, he keeps telling me the same thing…usually just before he goes and does something **stupid**!"

In mock exasperation, Harry snatched the phone from Hardcastle. " For God's sake, leave the kid alone, Milt! He's probably out havin' himself a good time, which is what we should be doin'! This is **supposed** to be a vacation!"

Throwing his hands up in resignation, the Judge sighed. "Alright Harry, you win! You're probably right."

Sensing victory, Harry grabbed the Judge's arm and steered him toward the door.

"Okay then, let's get going. The other guys are waiting for us in the lobby, and for Christ sake, lighten up a little and enjoy yourself!"

Casting one last look around the hotel room, Hardcastle's eyes rested once more on the phone. Shrugging off the uneasy feeling that swept through him, he pulled the door shut behind him and went to join his friends.

_**Chapter Eight**_

The long drive back to L.A. gave Mark ample time to once again ponder the events of the day. A day **totally** wasted by his estimation. Of course, he thought glancing at Alex, there was nothing wrong with doing a favor for an old friend, but **why** did it have to be **now**? Watching the sun set over the Pacific, he resigned himself to the fact that the day was totally shot. With a sigh, he consoled himself with the thought that after just one more stop, today's little ordeal would be over

In a way, he was glad for the chance to satisfy his curiosity and get a look at the joker who was offering Alex his fabulous "Job". Still though, it would certainly be a relief to get home and begin the work he had waiting for him there.

Nearing the Los Angeles city limits, Mark noticed a car in his rearview mirror which seemed to stand out for some reason. With a frown, he remembered spotting the same car behind him several other times during the course of the day. Trying to shake the unnerving feeling that he was being followed, he changed lanes and accelerated. To his dismay, the other car mirrored the move. His mind racing, Mark tried to remember how long the car had been tailing him.

"**Dammit**! Why wasn't I paying more attention!", he thought, mentally kicking himself for being so unobservant. "God knows, being associated with Hardcastle should have certainly taught me to be on guard at _**all**_times!"

Trying to stay calm, Mark told himself that his imagination was probably playing tricks on him. Who would be following them and why, he wondered, once again checking the mirror.

Changing lanes once more and increasing his speed, he noticed with a sinking feeling that their "shadow", followed right in sync.

"Hey Alex, we seem to have company back there and as far as I know, I don't have anyone gunnin for **me**right now, how bout you?"

With a startled jerk, Alex sat bolt upright and craned his head around to see the mystery car.

The terrified look on his face told Mark that Alex definitely had some idea who was following them.

"Come on Alex, level with me. Who's in that car and what kind of trouble are you in?"

Receiving no answer, Mark increased his speed slightly and checked his mirror again. He could see that the car was now starting to gain on him.

Glancing once more at Alex, still waiting for some reply, Mark was absolutely astounded to see him pull a .38 from his shirt, turn and fire at the car behind them.

As if in a dream, Mark lunged for the gun.

"**What** the **HELL** are you doing Alex?"

Jerking the gun from his grasp, Alex fired two more rounds at the car. The Coyote swerved wildly as Alex and Mark fought over the gun, nearly colliding with two cars in an adjacent lane.

Regaining control of the car amid a cacophony of angry horns, Mark glanced in the rearview mirror to check on the progress of their unidentified enemy.

A wave of panic shot through him like an electrical current. For a brief moment, he could not fathom what he saw and heard. A red flashing light on the dashboard, accompanied by a shrill piercing siren.

"**Oh Christ!** It's the **cops**! **Alex**, what did you do?"

Briefly considering pulling over, Mark realized that he now held the gun, his fingerprints mingling with Alex's.

In a flash, he decided that there was no alternative but to run. Hopefully, he could somehow sort everything out later.

Swerving in and out of traffic on the busy highway, he could see the other car in the rearview mirror slowly begin to inch it's way closer.

Glancing once more at the road ahead, he had to brake violently to avoid hitting a slow moving vehicle that seemed to appear from nowhere in their lane.

Swerving at the last minute and narrowly missing the car, he quickly regained his composure. Taking advantage of the open road now ahead of him, Mark floored it and put the Coyote through it's paces leaving the undercover car behind as though it were standing still.

Glancing one last time in the rearview mirror, it was quite apparent that the police car was now fighting a losing battle to overtake the Coyote.

Once out of sight of their pursuer, Mark turned onto the first road he saw and made his way into the city. Turning down one back street after another to guard against the possibility that they were still being followed, he watched cautiously for any other police cruisers in the area.

Wordlessly, he proceeded to the address Alex had given him, deep in an industrial section of the city.

Passing scores of warehouses, freight companies and office complexes, many of them vacant and run down, Mark resisted the urge to toss Alex out of the car until he got some answers.

Pulling into the parking lot of a dilapidated office building, he switched of the ignition and turned angrily to face Alex.

_**Chapter Nine**_

Okay Alex, I got you here, now you tell me what the **hell** you're involved with ! "

As Alex turned to answer, something in his expression made Mark look behind him. He was startled to see two men approaching the car. The man in the lead wore a dark suit, and he was obviously in charge.

Leaning on the door, he arrogantly met Mark's eyes, then Alex's.

"Well, I see you made it Alex. Good thing too. You know Mr. Tyson don't like to be kept waiting."

As he spoke, the other goon circled around behind the Coyote and grabbed Alex by the shirt, obviously planning to pull him bodily from the car.

"Come on pal, it's showtime."

Alex, obviously terrified, hurriedly tried to comply, clumsily scrambling out of the car still clutching the camera case.

"Now **there's** the Alex I remember from prison", Mark thought bitterly, wishing now that he had refused to let himself be talked into today's little fiasco.

Suddenly remembering the .38 that now lay on the floor, he slowly reached down, hoping to retrieve it. Even that slight motion did not go un-noticed by the man in the dark suit.

"Don't try it, Ace or I'll enjoy putting a bullet in that curly head of yours."

Pulling a gun, he placed it at Mark's temple to emphasize the point.

"Now just ease yourself out of the car nice and slow. You're invited to our little meeting too."

Laughing, the man in the dark suit held the gun at Mark's head as he climbed out of the Coyote.

"Easy does it, Ace. Don't make any fast moves or my finger might just slip on this trigger. You might just have yourself a **nasty** accident."

Laughing again, he reached into the car for the .38, never taking his eyes off of Mark.

"You weren't planning on using this on **me** were you, Ace? " He asked in mock amazement. " Now you've **really** hurt my feelings, and I **don't **like that!"

Without warning, he suddenly brought his fist up, clutching the .38 and struck Mark a savage blow to the face.

Mark, caught off guard at the sudden attack, took the full impact of the blow, staggering back and falling to the ground, stunned.

With that, the other goon took a step forward, still hanging onto Alex.

"Take it **easy**, Jack! Tyson wants em in one piece!"

His eyes blazing with hatred, Jack leveled the gun at his partner. " Don't tell **me** what the hell to do or I'll put a bullet in you too!"

"Okay, okay, calm down! Let's just get them to Tyson!" The second goon said, obviously nervous about Jack's intentions.

" Alright Ace, on your feet!" Jack growled, roughly jerking Mark's arm.

Still dazed, Mark staggered to his feet, clumsily swiping at the blood streaming from his nose and split lip. Leaning unsteadily on the Coyote, he stared at the blood on his hand. As his thoughts began to clear, Jack shoved him roughly toward the office building.

Resigning himself to the fact that, at least for now, there was no chance for escape, Mark willingly co-operated. As they walked toward the building, he gradually became more aware of his surroundings and tried to memorize every detail for future reference.

As he studied the structure, he dismally realized that the entire building, as well as the surrounding ones looked totally abandoned. Most were in a state of serious disrepair. Windows that weren't boarded up were broken out and graffiti covered many of the walls.

"No help from the neighbors here", Mark thought wryly

Making their way down a dark walkway between two of the buildings, he could hear something in one of the decaying buildings creaking eerily in the breeze.

Thinking to himself that the whole area would make a great location for the next John Carpenter horror flick, Mark wondered sarcastically if his fate would be similar to that of the countless pinheaded teenyboppers who stupidly allowed themselves to end up in places like this in the films.

Still unsteady on his feet, he stumbled in the darkness on the uneven sidewalk. Regaining his footing, Mark was roughly prodded in the back with the muzzle of Jack's gun.

"Watch where you're walking Ace, or I'll make sure you never walk again."

Turning a corner, the darkness was broken by a light streaming from a basement door standing open. The crumbling concrete stairs leading down to it were littered with paper and debris. Holding onto the rust covered railing, Mark carefully made his way down the stairway and through the door.

His eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, squinted painfully in the bright, glaring light cast by a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The furnishings in the room were stark, to say the least. A bare wooden table and several battered chairs, probably left behind when whatever business that had occupied the building had folded.

Jack and his partner stopped just inside the doorway, effectively blocking any chance for escape, leaving Mark and Alex to stand in the center of the room facing the table.

Seated there was a dignified looking man Mark guessed to be in his late fifties. His hair, which had been at one time jet black was now streaked with grey, and his most striking feature, his eyes, were the palest of blues. His face showed no emotion whatsoever, and the icy blue eyes gave him an un-earthly appearance which sent a chill through Mark.

"Please have a seat gentlemen," he calmly spoke gesturing at the two chairs.

His cool, calculating manner contrasted sharply with Jack's volatile nature, yet Mark sensed that the coolness masked a personality far more dangerous than Jack.

As they took their seats, Tyson spoke to Alex. "Well Alex, I'm glad to see you made it, now what do you have for me?"

Alex slid the metal camera case across the table top to Tyson. Calm hands deliberately opened the clasps and raised the lid to reveal the worn camera gear within. Casually, he tossed the camera and lenses aside, and with some difficulty, removed the cushioned lining to reveal several rows of neatly packaged white powder.

Mark gazed in horror at the cocaine and a wave of nausea hit him like a sledge hammer.

In shocked silence, he rose from his chair as if he would be permitted to escape into the darkness, leaving the present situation far behind him. All hopes of escape however, were dashed as he was slammed back into his chair by Jack.

Smiling, Tyson seemed to thoroughly enjoy Mark's discomfort.

"Relax, Mr. McCormick, we've been expecting you. Please stay awhile and chat, Alex has gone to some trouble to bring you here."

"Alex?" Mark uttered in total disbelief as he turned to face his friend. The tone was both one of questioning accusation, and horrified shock that his friend could betray him so.

Alex slumped miserably in his chair, his eyes averted, refusing to meet Mark's cold stare.

Casually, Tyson slid a small, neatly wrapped package across the table to Mark.

"I'm sure you can use this, Mr. McCormick."

Mark turned the package over in his hands examining it. "What's this? I don't get it."

After a calculated silence, Tyson smiled briefly and spoke. "Ten thousand dollars Mr. McCormick. A token of appreciation for your help and a retainer, if you will, for future services."

His eyes never leaving those of Tyson's, Mark tossed the package back across the table.

"Keep it. Any "Help" I gave _**you**_ was an accident!"

Tyson smiled broadly as he slid an identical package to Alex.

"Come now Mr. McCormick, don't be so noble, your friend has no qualms about accepting the money, do you Alex?"

Wordlessly, Alex slipped the package into his jacket, still refusing to meet Mark's eyes, which he could feel burning through him.

Mark stared at his friend in disbelief, still unable to accept that Alex had so deliberately involved him in their present situation.

Turning back to Tyson, Mark paused briefly, gathering his thoughts before he spoke.

"If Alex wants to let himself be bought and sold like a cheap hooker, that's his business. Money doesn't mean that much to me. I won't let myself be used like this"

With lightning speed, Tyson's mood changed from amiable to malignant and threatening.

"Don't flatter yourself, McCormick! You possess no unique talent that is indispensable to me. You are a decent driver with a fast car and **that** is all! Your most valuable asset to me was the fact that you were convenient, and easily accessible through Alex!"

Leaning forward in his chair and gripping the edge of the table, Mark stared directly into Tyson's cold eyes.

"Well if I'm so **average**, you can just get yourself another driver, because I'm not doing a **damn** thing to help you!"

Tyson flashed a mirthless grin and drummed his fingers on the table, choosing his words carefully.

"You did a good job today, and if you know what's good for you, you'll make yourself available to us whenever we need you."

"You can go to **Hell!"** Mark angrily pounded a fist on the table. "I'm **not** gonna let you involve me in this!"

"Oh, Mr. McCormick….you **are** naïve. You see, you are quite involved already, and if you are smart, you **will** work with us. Unless of course…you wish to give up the posh lifestyle you've been sampling for the past year. You certainly have taken a _**monumental**_ step up the social ladder since San Quentin haven't you. That fancy car of yours….the estate you now call home, and the company you keep? Who would have thought a year ago that you would be moving in the same social circles with a Judge?"

McCormick's face involuntarily registered his total shock at the extent of Tyson's information.

Tyson, enjoying his surprise, continued. "Judge Hardcastle has been **so** good to you. His generosity and trust are overwhelming . Why…..I've heard that he he's even begun to think of you as a son! How disappointed he'll be when he has to watch you be sent back to prison… and you **will** go back to prison if you do not co-operate. You see…we allowed surveillance teams to catch a glimpse of you just to excite their curiosity. Why I even had you photographed picking up our little package at the airport…..There's _**no**_ turning back for you now."

Concentrating on keeping the fear clutching at his heart from being heard in his voice, Mark spoke in what he hoped was a calm, confident manner.

"If I take a fall, I don't know how I'll do it…but I'll make **d****amn** sure that I take you with me."

No longer smiling, Tyson turned to Alex and with a nod toward the door, dismissed him.

Alex, grateful for the chance to leave, scurried past the two guards and out into the darkness, leaving Mark to face Tyson alone.

Returning his icy gaze to Mark, Tyson studied him for a long moment, idly tapping a pencil on the table top.

"Since your own sense of self preservation seems to fail you so miserably, perhaps you may wish to consider the consequences your decision will have on Judge Hardcastle. I can ruin his life. I can even arrange to have it taken away completely."

Lunging at Tyson across the table top, Mark felt his emotional control slipping away and stone-cold fury take it's place.

"**God** **d****amn** you! **Leave** Hardcastle the **h****ell** out of this! This is between me and you!"

"No, I'm afraid you're wrong McCormick. If you do not co-operate with me, I can implicate the Judge in this as easily as I implicated you."

"That's **ridiculous**! **No one** is going to believe that a Judge would be involved in drug smuggling!

"Oh, I'm afraid they will Mr. McCormick. A few altered records, a few Swiss bank accounts opened in his name and I can make it look as though he took you into his custody with the express purpose of using you to run drugs for him."

Thoroughly enjoying the fear, now plainly visible in Mark's eyes, Tyson continued.

"I don't think anyone has to tell **you** how many enemies Judge Hardcastle has in prison. " Tyson smiled "He won't last very long when he is sent there."

Mark sank back into his chair, for once in his life at a **total** loss for words.

"Now then, here is my proposition, Mr. McCormick. You may continue to enjoy your life at Gull's Way and when I contact you, you **will** co-operate and follow my orders. You will of course be paid handsomely for your efforts. **Or**, I will send the photos to the proper authorities and have you sent back to prison, followed shortly by your friend….the choice is yours. Of course, I won't press you for an answer now. I'll give you several days to decide, although I'm sure I know what your answer will be. You're free to go now. I'll be in touch."

Too stunned to reply, Mark rose from his chair and headed for the door. As he neared it, Tyson spoke again.

"Oh….one more thing, Mr. McCormick. If I were you, I would be very, very careful that Judge Hardcastle does **not**suspect that anything is wrong. Because if he does….he might not live long enough to enjoy his retirement."

Having reached Jack and his partner, still blocking the doorway, Mark froze momentarily in his tracks. He felt his hair stand on end at the sound of Tyson's voice. It's calm, deliberate tone belying the meaning of the words he spoke. Pushing past the two, "guards", he slipped into the darkness.

_**Chapter 10**_

Agonizing over the events of the past day, and the horrifying ramifications of the recent meeting, Mark was aware of little else as he made his way to the Coyote.

Barely noticing his surroundings, he drove strictly by instinct, heading for the outskirts of town. Grateful to reach the more remote, untraveled roads, he pushed the Coyote to it's limits.

Randomly, he wove in and out of canyons and down twisting country roads, seeing few other cars.

His mind racing faster than the engine, he tried desperately to arrive at a viable solution to his dilemma.

With the passing scenery blurring from excessive speed and the cool night air stinging his eyes, Mark thought of _**one**_ easy way out.

It would be oh so easy to just… miss one of the hairpin turns he'd been so easily handling, and crash through the guardrail to oblivion.

Tyson would then have nothing to gain from pinning this whole mess on Hardcastle. He would instead, in a sense, have lost at his own game.

Shaking his head, Mark blocked the unsavory thought from his mind. His whole life, it seemed , had been one long string of seemingly hopeless situations, beginning when Sonny had walked out twenty five years earlier.

**Nothing** had **ever** come easy for Mark McCormick, yet he'd always considered himself a stronger person for having weathered all of the adversities life had thrown his way. He'd grown up street wise and cocky. Able to think on his feet and charm his way out of almost any situation…that is until he'd come up against old Hardcase. There, he had met his match. Yet what had begun as the low point in his life, with those hideous years in San Quentin, had turned out to be the first lucky break in his life.

Hardcastle had been the first person since Flip, able to see beyond the tough, self defensive mask he'd shown to the world for most of his life. He'd been willing to go out on a limb to give a break to a kid who the rest of the world seemed eager to discard like an old pair of shoes.

Gripping the wheel tightly, Mark cursed himself for his stupidity. He had betrayed Hardcastle's trust by allowing himself to be involved in this nightmare. The Judge had offered a chance at a decent lifestyle, with dignity and self worth and he had thrown it away. Now, through one mistake, he had not only ruined his own life, but that of the one man he respected most.

"**No**!" he said aloud. "I'm **NOT** gonna let that piece of scum take everything from me just when I'm finally getting something out of my life!"

Realizing, as his thoughts cleared slightly, that being pulled over for speeding was the **LAST** thing he needed, Mark slowed his pace to the legal limit. Unable to decide what to do, he continued to drive for an undetermined length of time. Feeling exhausted but at the same time too agitated to return to Gull's Way, he felt as though he were now moving in slow motion.

Noticing vaguely that he'd somehow ended up near the ocean once more, he turned onto the first road leading to the beaches. The sand, firmly packed from daily traffic to and from the beach, passed softly and silently beneath the wheels of the Coyote.

Reaching the end of the road, Mark drove onto the beach, which was brightly lit by the full moon.

Sand Dollar Cove, a very popular beach for the surfers and sun worshippers who frequented it daily was now deserted. The sweeping vista of sand resembled snow in the bright moonlight.

Parking the car, Mark walked slowly toward the water's edge. Kicking off his shoes and socks, he waded into the breakers, feeling his feet sink pleasantly into the sand. Picking up several small shells from the shallow water, he skimmed them violently across the water's surface, quickly losing them in the waves. Angrily, he hurled the last one with all his might.

"**HOW** could I have been so **STUPID**!" He thought as he gazed out over the dark ocean. "**CHRIST**, Hardcastle was right. I **CAN'T** be trusted alone! Three days on my own and I've trashed my life **AND** his!"

Wading back out of the water, he sank miserably onto the sand to sit and think.

"Oh, **God**," he moaned, "**WHAT** the **HELL** am I gonna do?"

Feeling strangely chilled on the mild summer evening, he shivered as he drew his knees up under his chin, hugging them. He felt like a small child again, frightened and alone. Watching the continuous barrage of waves crashing onto the beach, he was mesmerized by the sheer power and greatness of the ocean. The roar of the waves seemed all consuming in the otherwise stillness of the night.

As he watched the hypnotic rhythm of the breakers, their frothy whitecaps luminescent in the bright moonlight, Mark grew progressively drowsier, finally able to briefly forget his huge burden of worries. Sometime, very late in the evening, he drifted off to an uneasy sleep, pursued in his dreams by a man with unearthly pale eyes.

_**Chapter eleven**_

Milton C. Hardcastle was in **NO** mood for small talk with the cabbie as they drove from the airport to Gull's Way. After several attempts at conversation, the driver had given up and the Judge was grateful now for the silence. Having failed repeatedly to check in with McCormick since he'd left for his trip, he had decided, much to the dismay of his traveling companions, to cut his vacation short.

Gazing now out the window at the passing scenery, his thoughts alternated between anger and anxiety. " The kid had **BETTER** have a damn good excuse for remaining incommunicado for the past three days", he told himself for the hundredth time. Yet….the horrible notion probed at the corners of his mind that some unknown catastrophe **HAD** befallen McCormick. "_**What if there's a cop car waiting for me at the estate?…waiting to give me some kind of horrible news."**_ Trying to dismiss the thought, he glanced once more over the driver's shoulder at the speedometer, feeling as though they were driving in slow motion.

Passing through the entrance gate at Gull's Way, he was relieved to see that the house was, at least, sill standing. A quick glance at the grounds helped to put his mind at ease. Nothing seemed out of place and the familiar sight of his beloved estate was just what the doctor ordered for travel weary bones and jangled nerves.

By now feeling utterly foolish at having cut his vacation short, the judge paid the driver and watched as the cab pulled away.

Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to see that it was just now 7:00 AM, having forgotten the time difference between New Orleans and L.A. " If I know McCormick, the Kid won't roll out of bed for another four or five hours." He thought glancing at the gatehouse.

Reaching the gatehouse, the Judge picked up a basket ball, laying by the walkway. With ease, he shot several baskets, grateful to stretch muscles tight from the long flight and cab ride.

"**McCormick** **!** Up an at 'em !" He called loudly.

Realizing very well that McCormick detested his early morning basketball practice, he fully expected an immediate response from his young friend sleeping inside.

"**McCormick**! It' time to get up and get some work done around here!"

Still receiving no answer, he strode purposely to the front door, planning to roust McCormick from his sleep.

"Huh! The Kid musta been out till all hours of the night to sleep this soundly" He snorted to himself.

Stomping angrily up the stirs to the loft, the Judge planned to exact a little revenge for his shortened vacation. He was **actually** going to **enjoy** dragging the Kid out of bed at what he would consider to be an un-Godly hour!

Reaching the top of the stairs, he froze in his tracks. Expecting to find McCormick, sawing logs, he found instead, an empty bed! Whether or not it had been slept in at all, was difficult to determine from it's usual un-made state.

"Hell….the way the Kid keeps house, you'd be hard pressed to tell whether the place had been **ransacked** or not! !" He thought sarcastically, gazing around at the "casual" appearance of the gatehouse.

Making his way outside, he scanned the grounds, hoping to catch sight of McCormick. Glancing at the garage, he now noticed that the Coyote was not in it's customary spot. Frowning, he wondered if McCormick had risen early, (unlikely) or had been out all night.

Walking toward the main house, his eyes wandered from the un-cut lawn, to the un-trimmed hedges, to the myriad of other chores that McCormick had blatantly refused to do. In fact….he could see _no_ signs that McCormick had done any work at all since he'd been left alone!

Stopping in his tracks, the unpleasant thought occurred to him that McCormick may have never returned at all after dropping him off at the airport.

"No," he shook his head dismissing the thought, and continued on his way. "I know the Kid better than that. He's **not** gonna take off on me."

"So where the hell are ya, McCormick?" He thought as he opened the door to the main house.

Pausing for one more look at the driveway, half expecting to see the Coyote pulling up…..too fast as usual, he took note of the unaccustomed silence of the estate.

Entering the house, he knew instantly that it was empty. "quiet as a tomb" he thought morbidly.

Making a cup of coffee, he slumped wearily into his favorite chair to brood.

_**Chapter twelve**_

The cry of a gull woke Mark, and for one long moment, he felt disoriented and confused. Looking out over the ocean in the grey, early morning light, the memories of the previous evening came rushing back. Remembering, he felt as though a dark cloud hung over his very existence.

Feeling thoroughly miserable, he got to his feet, groaning as he stretched cramped muscles. Sand , it seemed, clung to every square inch of his body. Brushing at it futilely, he longed for a hot shower.

In the light of day, his plan of action seemed much clearer. Actually, there were very few options available. Tyson had seen to that. The only logical choice right now was to return to Gull's Way. He would then try to locate Alex, get some information on Tyson and his activities, and put him away for good. And for _**God's sake**_, at all cost, he had to make sure that Hardcastle suspected **nothing**! Tyson had been all too explicit about Hardcastle's fate if that were to find out about this. " If I know Hardcastle, he'd plow right into the midst of this thing and get nailed." Mark thought , dreading that idea.

Stiffly, he walked to the Coyote and slipped behind the wheel, wincing as he caught sight of his battered face in the rear view mirror. Jack had done quite a number on him last night. Gingerly touching his swollen lip, he turned his head slightly and surveyed the bruises now plainly visible. Hopefully, they would fade somewhat by the time Hardcastle returned home two days from now.

As the Coyote roared to life, Mark hit the gas and sending up a cloud of sand, headed toward Gull's Way.

Flying down the Pacific Coast Highway, he passed a rag tag kid thumbing for a ride. Over one shoulder was a travel worn backpack, and under one arm he carried a bundle of clothes. Probably all the possessions he owned.

Just one more of the countless, dreamy eyed, idealistic kids who flock to California looking for their pot of gold.

Ironically, Mark envied the kid. Free from obligations and restrictions, and most important….alone. Looking out for **just** himself, with no one depending on him…..**counting **on **him** to do the right things, make the right decisions. That's the way it **should **be.

The agonizing thought occurred to Mark that he always seemed to hurt those he loved the most….always let them down.

Barbara had once told him that Flip had cried when he'd been sent to prison. Now…..he had not only let Hardcastle down by letting himself get involved with Tyson, but he'd endangered his life as well! The thought made Mark feel physically ill.

_**Chapter thirteen**_

Turning into the driveway, Mark considered once again, his good fortune that at least Hardcastle was, for now, out of town and out of the picture.

It would be much less complicated to track down Alex and begin his preliminary investigation of Tyson and associates without Hardcase breathing down his neck.

Screeching wildly around the fountain and coming to an abrupt stop in front of the garage, he emerged as gracefully as possible, considering his present condition, from the Coyote. Leaving a trail of sand in his wake, he headed for the gatehouse, imagining, for once without amusement, Hardcastle's reaction to his speedy entrance.

"_**McCormick**_!!" An unmistakable voice boomed from the main house.

Freezing in his tracks, a feeling of utter disbelief flowed through Mark, and for one brief moment, he wondered if he was hallucinating.

"**McCormick**!...where the Hell have you been for the past three days!"

Without turning to face Hardcastle, Mark lowered his head in defeat. Feebly, he tried to think of a plausible explanation as he listened to the advancing footsteps.

Feeling like a kid caught playing hooky, he answered trying to sound casual.

"Judge!...You're home early! How was your trip?...Did you have a good time?"

"**Don't** change the subject McCormick. I've been calling for the past three days, now where've you been?

"Oh….here and there." He answered lamely, turning only partially toward the Judge , trying to keep the bruises from view.

"Well from the looks of this place, I'd say you've been"**THERE** " a LOT more than you've been **HERE**! Did you have yourself a little vacation too while I was gone Kiddo?"

Sighing, Mark lowered his head once more.

"Look…..Judge, I'm sorry I wasn't here when you called, and I'm sorry that I didn't get much done while you were gone, but I had some things I **had** to take care of."

" Oh you did, did ya! Well I'll bet you were glad to get me out of your hair for a few days, so you could do all of the things you've been wanting to do!"

"Judge….you know it wasn't like that." He began but was cut off.

"I **TRUSTED** you McCormick! I left you in charge of things and all I asked was that you help me get this place straightened out for the party, and what do I find when I get home?...**NOTHING** touched around here and you strolling in at 7:00 in the morning ! Now **WHERE** were you last night?"

Receiving no answer, the Judge put a hand on McCormick's shoulder and turned him around. "**At LEAST** have the courtesy to look at me when I talk to you!"

Stopping abruptly in mid sentence, his mouth dropped open in shock as he caught sight of McCormick's badly bruised face.

"**WHAT** happened to you?...You look like **HELL**!"

"Gee thanks Judge, you're lookin good yourself!" He answered, a slight smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

"Be serious Kid! What happened? You look like you went ten rounds with Joe Lewis!"

Reaching out, he gently turned McCormick's face slightly to get a better view of the injuries.

Wincing, Mark pulled away, not meeting Hardcastle's eyes.

"It's nothing to worry about, Judge. Just a little disagreement I had with someone."

"Well I'd say you had a **BIG** disagreement with someone. Now I know you don't get into fights for no reason, so **WHAT** happened?" He pressed for an explanation.

"I told you it's **NOTHING,** Judge. Can't you just let it **DROP**?" Mark replied with a slight edge to his voice.

Trying to control his rising temper, the Judge smiled and placed a hand on Mark's shoulder. "Come on Kid, I think you know me better than that. Do you really think I'm gonna settle for a lame excuse like that?"

"**YOU'RE** gonna **HAVE** to settle for it, cause there _**is**___no big long story to tell! I got into a fight, and that's ALL there is to it! **END of STORY**!" Mark pulled away, now angry at being badgered.

"You **REALLY** take the cake McCormick! I cut my vacation short because you weren't where you were **SUPPOSED** to be and **you're** Mad! !"

Waving his arms in exasperation, Mark's voice rose angrily. "No one **MADE** you cut your trip short! If you **TRUSTED** me, you'd still be in New Orleans, livin it up with that bunch of dry biscuit friends of yours!"

"**TRUST** you!" The Judge exploded. " Why should I trust you ? I leave you alone for three lousy days and look at you!"

"Judge, **WHAT** do you want me to say? Is it an apology you want? **OKAY**…I'm **SORRY** I'm such a screw up! I'm **SORRY** I wasn't here to pick you up at the airport! I'm **SORRY** I had the **UNMITIGATED** gall not to be here when you came home! **WHAT** is it you want? Do you want me to pay for your cab fare from the airport? Here….I'll **PAY** it for you! !"

Searching wildly through his pockets for money and finding none, Mark threw his hands up in frustration.

"I'll pay you later if you trust me, or do you want an I.O.U.?"

"Cut the dramatics, McCormick! If I didn't trust ya, you wouldn't be here at all and you know that!" Pausing, Hardcastle gazed out at the ocean , trying to regain his composure and choose his next words carefully. "I'll tell you something though," He continued in a gentler tone, " I didn't expect you to go and get yourself beat up while I was gone."

"Judge…" Mark wearily began, then let his voice trail off, knowing he could **NOT** confide in Hardcastle without endangering him.

Seeing the turmoil and uncertainty in Mark's expression, the Judge sensed that there was a **WHOLE** lot more that was not being said about whatever had occurred during his absence.

Not wishing to press the matter any further, he waited for a moment for Mark to continue, and when he didn't, he spoke.

"You know Kid….trust works both ways. If you're havin some kind of problem…..you know you can tell me about it."

Sighing deeply, Mark looked out over the ocean, watching a gull caper and soar in the updrafts at the cliff's edge. Returning his gaze to Hardcastle, his eyes conveyed an unspoken regret and sadness.

"There's nothing to tell, Judge….Nothing at all."

_**Chapter fourteen**_

Thumbing through a number of case files covering his desk, Hardcastle tried to give his full attention and push the nagging worry from his mind.

Involuntarily, his gaze repeatedly drifted to the window and the view of McCormick, hard at work, trimming the hedges.

Pushing the files aside, Hardcastle stood and moved to the window.

Watching the younger man work, he felt truly bewildered at Mark's recent behavior. First the complete lack of responsibility he'd shown during the Judge's absence, and now the relentless, fevered pace at which he was attacking his chores. Neither of which were true to his nature.

For two days now, McCormick had risen early and worked methodically...almost maniacally throughout the day. Each night he had turned in early, looking completely exhausted, yet it had not escaped Hardcastle's notice that the light in the gatehouse had burned late into the night.

Something was troubling Mark deeply, and it seemed to be eating him alive.

Hardcastle could not shake the eerie feeling that suddenly, and without explanation, he was living with a complete stranger.

The rapport that he and McCormick had established in the past year seemed now to have vanished.

Since returning from New Orleans, the two had barely spoken, and in fact it seemed that McCormick was doing his very best to **avoid**the Judge.

Feeling rightfully indignant about this, Hardcastle headed for the garden, determined to get some answers. Reaching Mark however, he found himself strangely at a loss for words.

Unsure where to begin, he watched McCormick work for several minutes.

As if deep in thought, the younger man seemed totally unaware of his presence. Finally looking up and noticing the Judge, his blue eyes registered surprise, then strangely…..discomfort, as though he were looking at the **LAST** person on earth he'd like to see.

"Judge…..I didn't even hear you coming."

"Well, it's no wonder. The way you were attacking those hedges, I could've ridden up here with the fifth cavalry division and you wouldn't have noticed."

Usually ready for a little friendly banter, McCormick this time looked away, apparently no longer willing to "play the game".

"Yeah well, you know how it is, Judge. I gotta get this place shaped up for your party. **YOU** made **THAT** perfectly clear."

Meeting Hardcastle's eyes, both his tone and posture projected an arrogant attitude the Judge hadn't seen for nearly a year.

Trying to hold his rising temper at bay, knowing that a full blown argument would accomplish nothing, the Judge looked away.

"Well…..Rome wasn't built in a day Kid, why don't you take a break. Tomorrow's another day."

Looking at the blisters, now covering his hands, Mark studied the hedge clippers he still held and continued his verbal onslaught.

"Yeah, **THEY** probably had more modern equipment back then. **WHEN** do you think we might slip into the twentieth century and buy some power tools? Do we **HAVE** to do **EVERYTHING** the old fashioned way? I'm surprised you don't have a horse and buggy up there in the garage instead of the Vette!"

"**OKAY, McCormick**! **THAT'S** about enough of your smart mouth!" The Judge growled, his eye blazing with anger and at the same time…. hurt. " I don't know what your problem is but I'm not gonna let you use me for your whipping boy! I treat **YOU** with respect and that's how I expect to be treated!"

"**RESPECT**? Mark blurted, then stopped in mid sentence, as though someone flipped a switch. Looking away in frustration, he instantly regretted his outburst. This time, when his eyes met Hardcastle's, they were apologetic and pleading.

"Judge…..I'm sorry…..I don't know what's gotten into me lately."

Studying McCormick for a long moment, almost as thought he were trying to read his innermost thoughts, Hardcastle patted him on the shoulder.

"Forget it Kid, I guess we've both been a little on edge lately." Then clapping his hands together, his mood seemed to brighten. "Look, I've got these two nice big steaks in the refrigerator. Why don't you get cleaned up and we'll fire up the grill and watch some T.V.?"

"I don't know Judge,…. I'm kind of tired." Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he looked away, still feeling guilty.

"Aw come on Kid, _True Grit_'s on tonight!"

Smiling, McCormick relaxed visibly and for the first time since Hardcastle's return, seemed himself.

"_**True Grit**_!" His smile broadened. "**HOW **could I **POSSIBLY** pass that up?"

Heading toward the gatehouse, and a hot shower, McCormick felt too tired to worry about anything tonight.

_**Chapter fifteen**_

Relaxing in a chaise lounge on the patio, Mark listened to the night sounds, mingling with those of the T.V.

This evening seemed no different than so many others at Gull's Way. Ironically, he wondered how many more nights like this he would be able to enjoy there. His life had taken a dramatic change in direction in the past several days and now, once again, his future seemed bleak and uncertain.

Glancing to his left, he smiled, seeing the enjoyment plainly visible on the Judge's face as he watched True Grit for the umpteenth time. Then, his smiled faded and he felt a pang of sadness.

If he co-operated with Tyson and did his bidding, Hardcastle would be devastated. The disappointment he'd felt for J.J. Beal, not so long ago, would pale by comparison. Yet, if he refused to help Tyson, it would mean the loss of the Judge's reputation, material holdings and ,quite possibly, his life!

There seemed to be no alternative, and with a sinking feeling, Mark finally admitted to himself that there was very little possibility of escaping the trap he'd fallen into. That realization…sickened him.

Glancing up from the T.V., Hardcastle was startled to find Mark watching him. The expression on his face, seemed strangely unfamiliar in some way.

"You're awful quiet tonight Kiddo. What's the matter, didn't you like the steak?"

Shaking his head, Mark sighed wearily.

"No, it was great, Judge. I'm just tired."

"Well, it's no wonder!" Hardcastle frowned. "You've been working around here like there's no tomorrow!"

Watching the coals, still glowing dimly in the grill, Mark spoke quietly.

"There's a lot to do before your party."

"The **PARTY**!" The Judge gave a disgusted laugh. " Look Kid, you don't have to kill yourself for **THAT** party! Anyone who don't like the way the place looks can just turn right around and leave!" He growled motioning toward the driveway.

"But…I thought this party was really important to you, what with Judge Walsh being such a good friend of yours!" Mark looked puzzled.

"**A FRIEND?** Ted Walsh is a big windbag, that's what he is! Talk about dry biscuits! All this guy ever wants to talk about is **HIMSELF**! He's the most fat headed, self centered, man on the face of the earth! If he pats himself on the back any harder, he's gonna break his arm!" Pausing long enough to catch his breath, Hardcastle continued. " You know, just between me and you kid, Judges aren't **ALL** like me! Some of them are pompous, temperamental, pains in the ass!"

"**NO**!" Mark exclaimed in mock amazement. " A **J****UDGE** who's a temperamental pain in the ass? I **DON'T** believe it!"

Laughing , he was able to forget for the first time in days, the worry that had occupied all of his waking hours.

"So **WHY** are you giving this guy a party if you don't even like him?"

"Professional courtesy McCormick. I've known this guy for **YEARS**. It's just one of those social obligations that come up in your life. Probably everyone who comes to the party will come for the same reason. I don't think Ted **HAS** any **REAL** friends."

Smiling, Mark took a sip of the beer he was holding.

"So why were you so mad when you came home then?" He asked cautiously.

Looking slightly embarrassed, Hardcastle glanced away. " Look…I'm sorry I blew my top at you. It's just that I got worried when I could never get in touch with you."

Pausing, he gave considerable thought to his next words. " You know….your whole future depends on how you act while you're in **MY** custody. It wouldn't make me feel very good if I went away on some dumb trip and you got yourself in trouble while I was gone. I'm responsible for you, and I'm gonna make sure you don't make any mistakes. You've done a good job at keepin your nose clean this past year, like I knew you could. I've been proud of you."

Suspiciously, McCormick glanced at the Judge then looked away. It was so uncharacteristic for him to exhibit such open sentimentality that it sent a clear signal to Mark that Hardcastle did indeed suspect that something was wrong.

Becoming instantly self critical, he blamed himself for doing such a poor job of acting, "natural" since the Judge's return. Tyson's threats had weighed so heavily on his mind that it seemed impossible to carry on in a completely normal fashion.

Mark made a promise to himself to find some excuse to slip away from the estate tomorrow and track down Alex. A number of phone calls made during the past two days had turned up nothing, and it was apparent that some old fashioned leg work was next on the agenda.

Thinking about his plans for tomorrow and halfway watching what was left of the movie, Mark soon became drowsy. The stress, coupled with the ambitious work of the past few days took their toll and he drifted off to a fitful sleep.

Almost instantly, it seemed, he began to dream. Disjointed, frightening images of his meeting with Tyson. Frozen in time, etched indelibly in his mind. There to torment him mercilessly.

From some great distance, he could hear an unidentified, yet familiar sound, intruding into his sleep at regular intervals. A phone was nervously ringing somewhere and he seemed unable to answer it, paralyzed and helpless.

With a jerk, he awoke, feeling groggy and slightly disoriented. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes while trying to clear his thoughts, he could hear Hardcastle answering the phone in the house.

Within a minute, he appeared at the screen door with the cordless phone. "McCormick, it's for you." He said as he pushed the screen opened and handed Mark the phone. " I'll take some of this stuff in and clean up a little."

Gathering several plates and beer cans, he left Mark alone, offering him some privacy.

Taking the phone, Mark waited until Hardcastle was back in the house. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was nearly 11:30. Apprehensively, he held the phone for several moments before answering, not **REALLY** wanting to find out who was on the other end.

Steeling himself for the worst, he finally answered. " Yeah, this is McCormick"

"How you doin', Ace? You sure took your time answering the phone, where the hell were you?"

In that instant….Mark's blood ran cold and he felt his pulse pounding in his temples as he recognized Jack's voice.

"**WHAT** the **HELL** are you doing calling me here!" He spoke angrily in hushed tones. "**DON'T** you **EVER** call me on Hardcastle's line again!"

"Don't **YOU** ever talk to **ME** like that again!" Jack's voice was as cold as death itself. " Now listen up and listen good, I'm not going to repeat myself. I'm just calling to give you a little reminder. Our mutual friend wants an answer real fast on his little proposition. He's gonna need your help very soon so he'll be in touch, and you'd better give him the right answer if you know what I mean!"

Furious, Mark's hand tightened on the receiver until his knuckles turned white. "You tell Tyson to go to **HELL**!" He began and was cut off by a loud click followed by the dial tone. The retort had come instinctively, off the top of his head, and instantly, he regretted the brashness of the remark. The **LAST** thing he wanted was to antagonize Tyson or Jack with a smart answer.

Staring at the phone, tightly clutched in his hand, Mark did not even hear the screen door open.

"McCormick? What's wrong, are you okay?"

Deep in thought, Mark took several seconds to respond.

"Huh? Oh it's nothing…..I'm fine"

"Well you don't **LOOK** fine. You look like you just saw a ghost! Who was on the phone?"

"I **SAID** it was **NOTHING**, Judge!" Mark responded harsher than he'd intended. "Look…..I'm really tired…I'm gonna turn in."

Realizing that it was pointless to pursue the matter further, Hardcastle sighed. "Yeah…I guess you're right, it's getting late." Intently studying McCormick's face, he puzzled once more at the change in the younger man. "I'm about ready to turn in, too."

As McCormick made his way wearily to the gatehouse, he was haunted by the look in Hardcastle's eyes. He could see the hurt…..plainly visible there. The confusion at suddenly being excluded from Mark's trust, and even…..perhaps second thoughts about their arrangement. Mark imagined that Hardcastle must surely by now be remembering J.J Beal.

When he finally crawled into bed, Mark felt too exhausted to think at all anymore. Almost instantly he fell asleep. Once more, he began to dream….

_**Chapter Sixteen**_

With skimmer in hand, McCormick methodically and mindlessly, scooped bugs from the pool surface. The morning sun was already hot and his t-shirt clung damply to his skin.

Pausing to wipe his forehead, he gazed at the umbrella table where Hardcastle was having breakfast in his favorite morning spot. Listening to the radio while at the same time scanning the early edition of the L.A. Times, the Judge looked the picture of contentment.

Glancing up from his paper, he noticed Mark watching him. "Hey McCormick, last call for breakfast. Hurry up, it's getting cold!"

"I'm not hungry right now, Judge." He declined, shaking his head and stabbing half heartedly at the surface of the water with the skimmer.

"Well, **NOW** I've heard everything! I don't believe my ears!" The Judge exclaimed, laying down the paper. "It's not like **YOU** to pass up food for work Kid; are you sure you're feelin alright?"

Laying down the skimmer, Mark moved toward the table. " well…now that you mention it, I guess I could eat a little bit of something."

As he pulled up a chair, Hardcastle folded the paper and set it aside. "McCormick, I've never known you to eat a **LITTLE** of **ANYTHING!"**

Smiling, Mark poured a glass of orange juice from the pitcher and spooned some scrambled eggs onto a plate. "It looks great Judge. Tell you what. How bout I make breakfast tomorrow?"

"That's okay, Kiddo," the Judge answered between mouthfuls. " I've tasted your cooking, besides, scrambled eggs isn't exactly 'Julia Child' you know"

As he began to eat, Mark realized how hungry he'd actually been. Glancing at the radio, he wondered how the Judge could possibly enjoy the A.M. radio station he habitually tuned in to. The ridiculous, inane chatter of the morning D.J., intermixed with the bland, overplayed easy listening music was almost too much to take first thing in the morning.

"I don't suppose there's a chance you might like to try out the F.M. band, just for a little while and listen to some music from **THIS** decade?" Mark asked, gesturing toward the radio with his fork.

"Not a chance." The Judge smiled broadly, reaching for the coffee. "Besides, you **KNOW** I like to hear the news in the morning."

"Yeah, I know. The morning report, the noon report, the 5:00 report , the 6:00 regular report **AND** the 11:00 late report!" Mark rattled off then stopped abruptly, seeing the judge's expression. "Oh well, it was worth a try!" He finished quietly, reaching for seconds.

"Listen, McCormick, not to change the subject, but I'd like you to run into town after breakfast and pick up some paint. There are a couple of things I'd like to touch up before the party. We'll work on them together and it shouldn't take too long at all."

"Sure Judge, **NO** problem." Mark answered quickly, then hoped he hadn't sounded **TOO** anxious.

Hardcastle's request couldn't have come at a better time. It offered him an opportunity to locate Alex without having to make an excuse to go to town.

Given his behavior the past several days, Mark did not wish to arouse the judge's curiosity any further with another unexplained absence.

"I'd go myself but I have some case files I'd like to review. After this party's out of the way, I'd like to get back in the saddle and back to business. I got a couple of promising cases on the back burner." Hardcastle said enthusiastically.

"Now **THAT** certainly does give me something to look forward to!" Mark rubbed his hands together in mock anticipation. "If there's one thing I **CAN'T** get enough of, it's dodging bullets with the Lone Ranger!"

"Well, look at it this way Kid," Hardcastle smiled, "No one can ever say that your life is boring! !"

"Now **THAT** has **Got** to be the understatement of the year!" Mark laughed and drained the last his orange juice in one gulp.

Paying very little attention to the newscast droning on in the background, he nearly choked as one news item suddenly caught his attention.

As he listened, the voice of the newscaster seemed to draw him in until the rest of the world momentarily ceased to exist. He felt his pulse race as he absorbed the story.

/ _**Acting on an anonymous tip, police raided a local private airfield. When investigators arrived, they found the body of twenty-eight year old Robert,"Skylor" Murphy. Murphy's hands and feet were bound and he'd been shot once in the head with a small caliber weapon. An undisclosed amount of cash was discovered at the scene and traces of cocaine were located by drug detection dogs. Police suspect the murder was drug related**__._/

Stirring at his coffee, Hardcastle was startled to see a look of unmistakable horror flash across McCormick's face as he listened to the news story.

"McCormick?"…..

Mark stared at the radio, mesmerized.

"McCormick?...What's wrong, did you know him?" The Judge asked concerned.

"Huh?...Oh, no it's nothing" Mark finally responded, pulling his attention away from the radio with some effort. " Listen , Judge, I'm gonna get going. I'll be back in a little while."

Without waiting for a reply from Hardcastle, he left and headed toward the gatehouse.

Switching off the radio, the Judge frowned as he watched McCormick go, puzzling once more at his erratic behavior.

Feeling his temper rising, Hardcastle made a promise to himself to, one way or another, get to the bottom of McCormick's recent mood swings.

_**Chapter seventeen**_

Dashing into the gatehouse, Mark quickly gathered up his keys and wallet and headed for the door.

Before he could reach it, he was stopped, dead in his tracks as the phone began to ring. With a feeling of dread, he stared at the ringing phone for several moments, knowing who was most likely on the other end. In that brief time, he felt as though his heart had stopped beating.

Finally, laying the wallet and keys on the table, he picked up the receiver. "Yeah, who is this."

"Now that's not a very friendly way to answer the phone, is it, Ace?" The now familiar voice of Jack hissed.

"Yah, well somehow, I just haven't been in a very friendly mood lately. Now what the **HELL** do you want?" Mark responded harshly, hoping he sounded braver than he felt at the moment.

"Now **THERE** you go with that **SMART **attitude again!" Jack answered sarcastically. "Let me give you a little tip pal. Mr. Tyson don't like that smart mouth of your. He thought his little, "demonstration", might jar some sense into you, but I can see it hasn't made any difference."

"What are you talking about?" Mark demanded suspiciously.

"Didn't you hear the news, McCormick?...Your pilot friend had himself a **NASTY** accident." Jack's voice conveyed the unbridled delight he felt in relaying the news.

"**YOU SON of a BITCH**__!...You **KILLED** that kid to make a point!"

"**NO!" **Jack cut him off "**YOU** killed that kid, Ace!... You killed him by jerkin' us around. Now you'd better think **REAL** hard about co-operating with us or you won't have to worry about protecting Hardcastle's reputation because **HE'LL** be next!"

With a loud click, Jack was gone and Mark was left holding the phone tightly, listening helplessly to an empty line. Feeling his frustration and anger building, he resisted the temptation to hurl the phone across the room. Instead, he replaced the receiver slowly to the cradle, deep in thought .

Pausing only long enough to snatch up his keys and wallet, Mark dashed out of the gatehouse and moments later he was speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway.

_**Chapter Eighteen**_

Having spent the better part of the afternoon cruising some of L.A.'s less presentable streets and avenues, Mark had begun to lose hope of ever locating Alex. Loss Angeles was definitely the place to go to gain anonymity and many drifters and misfits managed to lose themselves in the crowd every year. The city was a refuge of sorts to all manner of weary travelers from runaway kids, to hard core fugitives from justice. Some would come to a bad end in a town often unforgiving and cold.

After talking to many street people, some familiar from working with Hardcastle and some, past acquaintances from prison, Mark finally tracked Alex to a seedy neighborhood on the waterfront.

The afternoon sun was hot, and even the slight breeze did not help greatly. Slowly, he toured the various streets in the area searching for the address he'd been given.

A group of Hispanic children playing in an open fire hydrant, stopped to watch as he drove by, unaccustomed to seeing a car like the Coyote in their neighborhood.

Mark's search finally lead to a shabby apartment building on a dead end street. Giving one last look at the Coyote, he entered the building , wondering what would be left of the car on his return.

Unbelievably, the interior of the building was even worse than the exterior. Paint of an unidentifiable color peeled from the walls, and the stench of filth and decay assailed his nostrils.

Most of the overhead light fixtures lacked light bulbs, and even in the mid-afternoon, the hallway was dark and murky.

From somewhere on an upper floor, a young baby's cries drifted forlornly down a staircase presently occupied by an aged black man sipping from a brown paper bag. The man sang softly to himself and seemed not to notice Mark's presence.

Dismally taking in the squalor surrounding him, McCormick recognized the futility of a door to door search for Alex. The people who lived here were probably too busy just trying to survive to worry about who their neighbors were or what they might be in to. He'd learned from experience that people from this type of environment were often too frightened of the possibility of retaliation to answer **ANY **questions about **ANYONE.**

Feeling dejected and rather hopeless, he opened the battered front door, idly noticing the aging plywood where a pane of glass had once been.

Breathing deeply, he drank in the fresh air, a welcome change from the putrid smell of decay.

Heading toward the Coyote, Mark decided to wait awhile longer on the slim chance that Alex might just happen to turn up. Though it was a long shot, he had very few other options right now. Amazingly…..he did not have long to wait.

Just as he reached the car, he caught a glimpse of motion to his right. Turning, he was astonished to see Alex rounding the corner.

As Alex caught sight of him, probably noticing the Coyote first, he stopped dead in his tracks and dropped the bag of groceries he carried. In a split second, he turned and bolted back down the ally from which he'd come.

Hesitating for just a fraction of a second from surprise, Mark took off after Alex, nearly running into the path of a speeding car he'd never even noticed.

Pulling up sharply to avoid being hit, he paid no attention to the blast of the horn or the driver's gesture, intent on following Alex.

Dodging around the back of the car, he continued his pursuit, leaping over the groceries strewn across the sidewalk, milk now running in a white river into the gutter and a carton of eggs, now scrambled on the hot pavement.

Rounding the corner, he caught sight of Alex, far ahead, running as though his life depended on it.

Focusing on the white t-shirt bobbing in the distance, while at the same time concentrating on the rhythm of his own feet, pounding hard on the pavement, Mark desperately tried to gain on Alex.

As Alex turned to look over his shoulder, checking Mark's progress, a man stepped out of a doorway ahead of him. Unavoidably, Alex collided with him and the two men hit the pavement.

Mark, seeing his opportunity, put every last ounce of effort into his pursuit and made up precious distance as Alex scrambled to his feet.

Dodging around the furious pedestrian, who had by now regained his footing and was dusting himself off, Mark took the brunt of the verbal retaliation at Alex's misdeed.

Now, just ten feet away, Alex glanced once more over his shoulder and ducked into an alley.

As Mark followed, he was elated to see that Alex had chosen poorly. The Alley was a dead end, and any exit was barred by a chain link fence.

In utter desperation, Alex hurled himself at the fence , trying to claw his way to the top.

Mark reached him just a split second later and launched himself at Alex, grabbing the back of his shirt and roughly jerking him from the fence.

Instantly, Alex quit struggling and admitted defeat and as Mark swung him around, both men collapsed against the fence, neither able to speak as they tried to catch their breath.

"Alex!" Mark finally spoke through ragged gasps, "Why'd you run? You were sure happy to see me the other day!"

"I'm **SORRY**, Skid! I'm **SORRY**!" Alex pleaded desperately, edging away from Mark

Grabbing Alex's arm to halt his progress, Mark stared with cold fury into his eyes, the stress of the past several days clouding his judgment .

"Why'd you do it, Alex? **WHY **did you do this to me? Do you know what you've done to my life?" As he spoke, he shoved Alex back up against the fence, holding him there to prevent his escape.

"I'm **SORRY**, Skid! I didn't mean to hurt you, believe me! Let me explain!"

"I can't imagine **HOW** you can explain something like this but I'd like to see you have a shot at it, but **NOT** here! " Releasing Alex's arm, he gave him a shove toward the entrance of the alley. "Let's go back"

As they reached the main street, Mark peered cautiously around the corner, half expecting to see the furious pedestrian Alex had felled heading their way. To be on the safe side, he headed the other way.

"Let's go around the block and THEN head back. We have as much trouble as we can handle right now."

With a reluctant, yet resigned Alex in tow, Mark hiked around the block at a good pace, trying to waste as little time as possible. The hot sun reflecting off of the asphalt made the last part of the journey nearly unbearable and Mark found himself daydreaming about a tall cold one.

As they made their way around the last corner, Mark was horrified to see a small group of kids ranging in age from ten to about sixteen, leaning into the Coyote. One boy, the oldest looking, sat in the car, bent over working on something.

"**Hey**!" Mark cried incredulously, " Get the **HELL** away from my car!"

Running as hard as he could, he watched the kids scatter. As he got nearer, he could see that the kid in the car was working feverishly to remove the stereo. With a final yank, he tore it free and passed it out the window to the lone remaining boy, who in turn tucked it under one arm and dashed off down the street.

Just before Mark reached the Coyote, the boy scrambled out of the car and took off down the street after his companions.

His energy already spent from his earlier pursuit and long trek back, Mark pulled up by the car, unable to give chase. Exhausted and out of breath, he gazed wistfully at his stereo heading down the street.

Leaning into the car, he examined the gaping hole where the stereo had been. A tangle of wires trailed out through the hole and dangled uselessly onto the floor.

"_**DAMMIT**_ !" Mark, pounded his fist on the steering wheel and straightened out to face Alex, who stared balefully from fifty feet away as though he wished to distance himself entirely from the incident.

Motioning for Alex, Mark climbed into the car and settled into position behind the wheel. Revving the engine, he stared straight ahead as Alex approached the car.

"**Get in**!" He said tersely, not looking at his friend.

Alex had barely settled into his seat when Mark peeled out, leaving miles worth of tread on the pavement.

Neither man spoke for quite some time as they sped along, Alex nervously glancing at Mark from time to time as though trying to read his thoughts.

After driving for about ten minutes, Mark seemed to relax slightly and slowed their pace noticeably. Dejectedly, he shoved the wires back into the hole in the dashboard as if to somehow tidy up the entire, unsavory event.

"Okay Alex, spill it!...what's your excuse for wrecking my life?"

"Aw Skid! Who'd have thought you **WANTED** to live with that Judge?" Alex asked with a voice dripping with contempt. "And not just **ANY** judge, but the **VERY** Judge who sent you up! I thought you would **JUMP** at the chance to get away from that and pull down the kind of change you're gonna make working for Tyson!"

"**Alex**!" Mark's voice registered the frustration he felt. " I don't know about you, but I've seen enough of prison to last a **LIFETIME.** I was just starting to get my life back on track when **YOU** came along and screwed it up! And while we're on the subject of money, what the **HELL** are you doin' living in that dump of a neighborhood back there on the kind of 'change' you're apparently pullin' down?"

Alex didn't answer, staring instead at his hands, fidgeting nervously in his lap, then turning to look at the blur of passing scenery. His nervousness spoke volumes to Mark, confirming what he already suspected.

Swerving suddenly onto the berm, he screeched to a stop, engulfed in a cloud of dust the Coyote had disturbed. Putting the car in park, he turned to face his friend.

"You're **using** that shit that you're helpin' Tyson to move, aren't you, Alex? He's got you workin' for him just to support your habit!"

Alex didn't answer, refusing to even look at Mark, but his lack of response only served to reaffirm Mark's suspicion.

"**Alex**! How could you be so stupid? You know what that stuff will do to you! You've seen the users knockin around the prison system. **Christ,** some of them are so burned out they'll **NEVER** be **ANYTHING **again!"

Pausing, partly out of frustration, and partly to see if his words were having any effect, Mark stared for a long moment at Alex and then continued.

"Well….congratulations, Alex! You've gone from being a prisoner of the system, to a prisoner of Tyson and his cocaine empire. Quite a career move huh?...What was the next step? ….Were you gonna get me hooked too so I could work the rest of my life to support a habit?"

"**No**! It wasn't like that! I wouldn't do that to you!" Alex cut him off, finally goaded out of his silence by Mark's caustic evaluation of the situation. "You gotta believe me, Skid! I'm **sorry**…..really…..I **never** wanted to hurt you, it just happened that way." His voice trailed off miserably. "Isn't there any way I can help?"

"Yeah, Alex….You better believe you're gonna help me!" Mark said through clenched teeth. "You're gonna help me get that son of a bitch. Now you know Tyson better than I do. We need facts, we need to see records, we **HAVE** to get some kind of evidence about his operations, and **FIRST** of all, I want to lay my hands on anything he has on **ME**! I want to be free of that bastard!"

"Aw Skid! You **CAN'T** ask me to do that! Tyson'll **KILL** me! He'll kill **BOTH** of us!" Alex looked absolutely terrified.

"Listen Alex!" Mark's voice rose angrily. " My life's not worth a whole heck of a lot right now anyway, and if **YOU DON'T HELP ME**, You're not going to have to worry about Tyson, cause **I'M** gonna strangle you right here!" Pausing, Mark took a deep breath and continued in a calmer tone. "Look Alex….you **CAN'T** want to live like this. It's a dead end street! If I can get to Tyson's place and get hold of the pictures and information he's holding over my head, he won't be able to implicate me in this. **THEN**, I can take this to Hardcastle and together we can bring him down. We'll help you get clean, Alex, you can make something out of your life."

"I'm scared, Mark," Alex said quietly. "Can't you tell the Judge now? Maybe **HE** can do something about Tyson."

"**NO**! I can't risk that! " Mark answered firmly. " I can't say **ANYTHING** to Hardcastle till I get hold of those pictures and any other evidence Tyson has on me. Now for the **LAST** time, Alex…..Are you gonna help me or not?"

Alex lowered his eyes and for a moment, Mark thought he was going to refuse to help. After a long pause, he spoke.

"I **REALLY** don't know very much about Tyson's operation. I just did what I was told and collected my money. I know he owns a number of business's around town and he has a place somewhere in Topanga canyon. The only place **I'VE** ever seen is a trucking company south of the city. That's were they took me a couple of times when he wanted to talk to me."

Without saying another word, Mark turned the key and the Coyote roared to life. Pulling back onto the road, he made a quick u-turn and headed back to Alex's apartment.

Hardcastle must surely by now be wondering where he was. The prospect of driving back to Alex's neighborhood was not a pleasant one. It would not be easy to explain to the Judge how a routine trip to the hardware store that should have taken less than an hour, had turned into afternoon long outing

What excuse could he use **this** time! It was getting more and more difficult.

Not that Hardcastle was **REALLY** going for any of his excuses anyway. Mark was well aware that by now, the Judge certainly knew that **something** was up…..just not exactly what. He could not possibly imagine the full horrifying extent of the problem.

McCormick had no illusion that he was really snowing the Judge with his various excuses. ...and it was unpleasant to have to continually lie to him.

Alex had given him no options on that.

"Okay Alex, here's the plan. I'm gonna pick you up at midnight and we're gonna head over to that trucking company and have a look around, and you'd **BETTER** be there. If you're not, I **WILL** find you if it takes me the rest of my life. Do you get the picture? " Mark glared at Alex, hoping to impress upon him the seriousness of the statement.

Alex seemed to be pondering the whole proposition and nervously fidgeted in his seat, gazing at the scenery passing quickly past the Coyote. After a long moment, he finally answered.

"Yeah Skid, you can trust me, I'll be there." Sensing Mark's eyes on him, he turned to face him. "**REALLY**, I **won't** let you down again!" Alex's expression this time was one of sincerity.

Something in Alex's tone made Mark feel confident that he could be trusted to be there tonight at midnight.

"I think you mean that Alex." Mark said with a weary smile….." At least I sure HOPE you mean it."

_**Chapter Nineteen**_

With a final, vigorous burst of rasping, Hardcastle set aside the wire brush and surveyed the wrought iron railing he'd been working on. With a satisfied grunt, he swept the loose flakes of old paint from the surface and pronounced the job done. Frowning, he glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, and scanned the driveway in vain for a glimpse of the Coyote.

Straightening, he brushed the paint dust from his clothing and stretched muscles, cramped from the tedious job he'd just completed.

In actuality, the job could have been considered satisfactory several hours ago, but he'd nervously continued to nit pick at it awaiting McCormick's return.

The Kid should have been home hours ago, and the judge could not help but feel uneasy about yet another unexplained absence.

Surveying the work area, he realized that he'd by now wire brushed everything even remotely in need of painting. In fact, he'd been forced to stop on several statues that were beginning to lose detail to the brush!

Tossing the brush aside, his eyes wandered to the truck, parked in front of the garage. The idea to just head out looking for McCormick had been knocking around the corners of his mind for the past hour and as the minutes ticked by, the temptation grew stronger.

Just as he was beginning to compose a mental list of possible places to look, he heard, before he saw, the Coyote turning into the driveway.

The Momentary relief he first felt, turned to irritation at McCormick's continuing inconsiderate behavior.

"Where've you been, McCormick?" He began even before he'd reached the Coyote. "The whole afternoon's shot! What happened? Did you get lost on the way back from the hardware store?"

"I'm sorry, Judge. " McCormick said as he climbed from the car. "I got tied up in town. You know how traffic is." He lied, hoping to avoid further questioning about his absence.

"'I'm sorry' is startin' to sound like a broken record Kid, and I'm getting a little tired of hearing that tune!" Reaching into the car for the can of paint, he noticed the missing stereo. "What happened to your radio?" He asked, straightening to face McCormick.

"Yeah….**that** was another little problem I had in town. It got stolen while I was in the hardware store." He lied again and reached for the bag of brushes and thinner laying on the floor.

"Well, no wonder you're late! Why didn't you tell me that in the first place? Did you give the serial number to the police when they made their report? Did it take long? Did you have to go down to the station?" Then…seeing the look on McCormick's face, he stopped abruptly. "You **DID** report it stolen, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't bother. They **NEVER** recover anything as small as a car stereo!" He said, wishing to drop the entire subject for fear the **REAL** story would somehow come out.

"They **CAN'T **recover it **unless **it's been reported stolen, McCormick!" The Judge fumed at Mark's apathy toward the incident. "I can't believe that someone went **into** your car and **stole** your radio and you won't even report it! "

"Yeah well, you know how the justice system works Judge. They'd probably grab the wrong person and some poor innocent kid would spend a couple of years in jail."

"Aw…..poor McCormick." The judge smiled sarcastically. "That old delusion is rearing it's ugly head again!"

"**Delusion** my foot!" McCormick exclaimed in mock exasperation. " It **HAPPENS**! **Believe** me….I know from experience !

" I give up McCormick, there just isn't enough time to debate this. I'm right and you're wrong….case closed!" The Judge smiled as he headed toward the patio, paint in hand.

"Now **WHERE** have I heard **THAT** before?" McCormick laughed as he followed with the brushes and paint thinner.

Conversation was light as they made use of the dwindling daylight, Hardcastle concentrating on the job at hand and McCormick thinking only of the task ahead of him at midnight.

The next several hours seemed like an eternity to McCormick as he waited for midnight. Later, from the gatehouse, he anxiously watched the lights in the main house, hoping that this would not be a late movie night.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the lights in the judge's bedroom blink off shortly after 11:00.

Pulling slowly out of the driveway twenty minutes later, as quietly as possible, he hoped he had not been observed.

In the main house, the Judge, feeling restless and unable to sleep, heard the familiar sound of the Coyote's engine and went to the window.

As he watched McCormick disappear down the driveway, he pounded the window sill in frustration. He felt both angry at his lack of control over the current situation and helpless at the realization that…..little by little…..McCormick was slipping away from him.__

_**Chapter Twenty**_

The Excalibur Trucking Company was closed and apparently deserted when Mark and Alex arrived at almost 1:00 AM. Working by the light of the full moon, McCormick quickly and efficiently, cut through the chain link fence surrounding the compound.  
Fortunately, the trucking company occupied an isolated area at the edge of the industrial park which housed it and there were no close neighbors to observe their activities. Mark realized grimly that the dark clothing both he and Alex wore would be of little benefit in the bright moonlight.

With a final snip, McCormick gained access to the yard with Alex reluctantly following.

Silently, the two men hurried across the yard and ducked into the shadows of the two story building. A preliminary check of the exterior gave no hint of any type of alarm system and this, coupled with the lack of any guards, either human or canine, seemed almost too good to be true.

McCormick had no trouble picking the lock on a door on the dark side of the building and in minutes they were inside.

The smell of gasoline and diesel fuel was strong, and the beam of McCormick's flashlight did little to light the large room they now occupied. The first floor was obviously used merely as a garage, and as he scanned the room with the light, they could see several trucks in various states of disrepair as well as several apparently in the process of being loaded.

A quick look at the visible cargo indicated nothing suspicious. A variety of different products from paper goods to canned fruit, all probably in the process of being received and re-routed to various locations, were stacked at one end of the building.

Finding the stairway, they made their way to the second floor which housed the offices. The wooden stairs creaked loudly under their feet, and the stillness of the night seemed to amplify the sound.

"I don't like this, Skid! This place gives me the creeps." Alex murmured, his voice echoing softly in the stairwell.

Stopping dead in his tracks, McCormick turned and glared. " I don't like it either, Alex. I should be at home in bed, but _**YOU**_ didn't leave me a whole lot of choice did you !" He paused briefly, then continued upward.

As they opened the door at the top of the stairs, they seemed to enter a whole new world. Plush carpeting now cushioned their footsteps, and the scent in the air was no longer one of gasoline but instead, of fresh paint and new carpeting.

The beam of the flashlight now revealed offices which were top class and state of the art. As they padded down the hallway, Alex indicated the office they'd been looking for.

Slipping through the door and into the room, McCormick was sadly unaware that they had just broken the beam of a silent alarm. Oblivious to the fact that their time was now limited, he began to methodically search the drawers of the large oak desk. Finding nothing of value there, he moved to the filing cabinet.

Feeling hopeless, he gazed at the remaining drawers knowing that it would take **DAYS **to go through all of the folders not even knowing **EXACTLY **what he was looking for. He would have a better chance of finding a needle in a haystack! The information could be filed under a code name or indeed could be at a totally different location.

" Maybe it's under C for chump." He thought wryly to himself. "Or how bout I for idiot!

Moving back over to the desk, he plopped heavily into the chair in exasperation.

Alex, nervously pacing the floor, stopped and faced him.

"It's **NOT** here, Skid. Come on…let's go I'm really getting bad vibes!" Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and he licked his lips nervously.

Ignoring him, McCormick began once more to rifle through the contents of the desk. "**THINK** Alex. Did Tyson ever give you any idea where he might keep this stuff?"

"**NO**!" Alex blurted, then hushed his tone. " I **DON'T** know!" He began nervously pacing again.

Reluctantly, McCormick admitted to himself that, most probably, Alex was right. The information they searched for could be anywhere, Tyson's home, or some other business perhaps.

Angrily, he shoved the drawer back into the desk venting some of his frustration with the act. The drawer was nearly closed when it jammed on something.

Forcing it open, McCormick ran his hands in and around the drawer. Suddenly, his eyes widened in surprise as he felt something taped to the underside of the drawer.

Tearing it free, he could see in the indirect light of the flashlight laying on the desk top, that it was a plain manila folder. Hurriedly, he fumbled for the flashlight to get a better look and with shaking hands, he opened the cover.

On top of the file were the photos of himself at the airfield he'd hoped to retrieve, but with a sinking feeling, he studied the rest of the contents of the folder. Page upon page of information linking **Hardcastle** to the operation. Just as Tyson had claimed. There were copies of records from fictitious drug transactions, delivery schedules… times, places and contacts. Probably dead ones by now if McCormick guessed correctly, and even…..incredibly, copies of phony bank statements from several foreign banks.

Tyson had done his homework thoroughly, and McCormick realized with a feeling of dread, that he seemed to have no choice, at least for now, but to co-operate and drive for Tyson. He'd stalled long enough, and any further delay could very well cost Hardcastle….everything.

"What is it Skid? Did you find what you were looking for?"

McCormick seemed not to even notice Alex, deep in thought , his mind racing to evaluate what he was seeing.

As he rose, folder in hand, a noise somewhere in the building made his blood run cold.

"Skid!" Alex said in a hushed tone.

McCormick raised a hand to silence him.

"**SKID!"** Alex repeated more frantically. " Someone's in the building!"

"**Alex**! Shut up!" Mark hissed, and continued to listen, trying to locate the source of the sound.

Then, the creaking staircase pinpointed the location all too clearly.

Hurriedly, McCormick jammed the folder back under the desk drawer, using the tape left clinging there to replace it.

"**WHAT** are you **doing**?" Alex asked astonished.

"I'll explain later, now quick, **THINK**…..is there a way up to the roof? " McCormick asked moving to the door.

"I don't know for sure!" The panic Alex felt, showed plainly both on his face and in his voice. " I saw another staircase at the end of the hall. I think it leads to the roof."

"Which way?" McCormick asked as he opened the door a few inches and peered down the hallway toward the approaching footsteps.

"To the left" Alex answered as they headed to the end of the hallway away from their pursuers.

Grateful for the plush carpeting which muffled the sound of their escape, they raced down the hall. In reality, the distance to the stairwell was a short one but as if in a dream it seemed to take an eternity to get there.

With each step, McCormick expected to be spotted by their pursuers, only seconds behind them.

Taking the narrow set of stairs two at a time, Mark prayed that the door at the top would not be locked. For one horrifying second, he thought that it was as he tried the doorknob. Shouldering against it, the door suddenly burst open wit a shuddering thud and he literally fell through it onto the roof followed closely by Alex.

On the floor below, just seconds after Mark and Alex had reached the stairwell, the door at the opposite end of the hallway flung open.

Two men, each armed with a weapon, made a hurried but experienced search of the offices.

As they were about to conclude that they were perhaps investigating a false alarm, they suddenly stiffened, alerted by the sound of stealthy footsteps overhead. For a brief second, they froze and two pairs of eyes gazed at the ceiling as though they might see through to the roof.

Then, wordlessly, the two men split up and with well rehearsed precision, one headed for the roof and the other back downstairs.

On the roof, McCormick searched desperately for a means of descent. Seeing no sign of a fire escape, he quickly settled for a drainpipe which fortunately was on the side of the building closest to the Coyote.

Slipping quickly over the side, he took a firm grasp on the pipe and began to partly climb and partly slide downward. For a brief moment, he believed that Alex was going to refuse to follow and was frankly too busy to care.

Just as he had started down, he encountered a bracket on the pipe, invisible in the darkness.

The jagged metal sliced into his hand, causing him to lose his grip. He dangled for what seemed like an eternity, by his left hand, His head reeling, partly from the dizzying height and partly from the pain in his hand, he struggled to regain his balance, scrambling for a foothold on the side of the building. Steeling himself against the pain, he grasped the pipe firmly once again with his injured hand and made his way to the ground.

Crouching momentarily in the bushes, he waited for Alex to catch up. His friend half jumped and fell the last six feet, and the two men tore across the yard toward the Coyote.

When they had nearly reached the break in the fence, a shot rang out loudly, shattering the stillness of the night. They'd been spotted!

As they pushed their way through the fence, another shot zinged off of the chain, dangerously close to McCormick. They climbed into the car as two more shots rang out, neither of which came close this time. As the Coyote roared to life, and they sped off, Mark's pulse pounded in his temples and his breath came in gasps.

For long moments, neither man spoke. Alex was the first to break the silence. " You okay Skid?"

"Oh , I'm **JUST** great ,Alex!" His voice was as cold as ice and his eyes never left the road ahead.

"Your hand's bleeding" Alex observed, watching McCormick's face for a reaction.

McCormick examined his hand casually, as if noticing for the first time he had been injured at all. The bleeding had nearly stopped but his palm and wrist were sticky with partially dried blood and his clothes were spattered with it as well.

"My hand is the **LEAST** of my problems right now, Alex. Do you have **ANY** idea what you've done to my life?

Avoiding the question, Alex changed the subject. I don't understand why you left that file back here after what we went through to find it."

"Taking that file isn't going to help **ANYTHING**,Alex. Most of what was in there were just copies anyway. Tyson wasn't bluffing. Everything he said was true. He's got enough in that file to take Hardcastle down if I don't co-operate.

Turning now to face Alex, his voice was suddenly sad and wistful. "Why'd you do this to me Alex? ….For the **FIRST** time in my life I had something decent. A chance to really do something with my life, and now…that's all gone."

"Yeah, **YOU** had something decent and I was **DYING** in prison!" Alex answered bitterly.

"Is **that** what this is all about Alex?" Mark asked, astounded. "**Revenge**? Did it bother you so much that I got a lucky break?"

"It's about SURVIVAL, Skid!" Alex's eyes burned with anger. " I **didn't** have someone to take me out of that place and take care of me!...Don't you understand? …..I was **DYING** in there! I couldn't take it anymore, so when Tyson offered me a chance, I took it! I'd have done anything to get out of there! **ANYTHING**! You'd have done the same thing!

"I hope you're wrong, Alex. I hope I **NEVER** sink that low." McCormick's knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Hardcastle means a **LOT** to me… My life is already totaled But I'm gonna make damn sure that I don't drag him down with me. The only thing I can do now is to leave Gull's Way and work with Tyson till I can find some way to get him for this , and if I have to die to do that I **WILL**!"

**Chapter Twenty One**

A short time later as he traveled the last stretch of the PCH, just before Gull's Way, Mark McCormick found his mind filled with thoughts of the time he's spent at the estate. What he had first considered to be merely an extension of prison, he had now begun to think of as home.

The time he's spent there, all things considered, had been more good than bad, though he'd never admit that to old Hardcase. Actually, he thought to himself ironically, he'd never even admitted that to himself before!

Driving through the entrance gate, still shrouded in early morning mist, he wondered how many more times he would pass this way.

The sun was just starting to come up and the morning dew glistened on the shrubs and hedges he would never trim again.

How many times in the beginning had he dreamed of the day when he would be free from this place, yet now, more than anything, McCormick longed to change the current situation and be able to stay

Pulling wearily into his accustomed parking spot, he never even noticed Hardcastle sitting at the patio table, coffee cup in hand. Climbing from the car, he sensed, rather than saw that he was being watched and with a sinking feeling, he turned to face the Judge.

Neither man spoke as McCormick froze in his tracks, keys in hand. From Hardcastle's rumpled appearance, Mark surmised that he'd probably been waiting up since the moment he'd left to pick up Alex.

Feeling like a kid caught out past curfew, McCormick was at a total loss for words.

Hardcastle was the first to speak, his words angry, yet controlled.

"Okay McCormick, let's have it. Where the **h****ell **have you been?"

"I just wanted to go out for awhile." McCormick lied, "I was feelin' cooped up, you know how it is."

"You must think I'm not too bright, McCormick!" The Judge's voice rose with his temper. "Do you **really **think I'm gonna believe that! Do you think I'm **BLIND**?... Setting down the coffee, the Judge rose to face McCormick. " Do you think I haven't noticed your weird behavior lately? I've about had it with the mood swings and mysterious phone calls and unexplained disappearing acts. **WHAT'S** with you McCormick?...**WHAT**?... Are you havin some kind of identity crisis or some kind of split personality?...**WHAT**?"

"**SPLIT PERSONALITY**?" Mark could not help smiling at Hardcastle's last comment. "You've been watching Geraldo again haven't you Judge"

"Oh, so you think it's funny do ya, Kiddo?" The Judge growled, seeing absolutely no humor in the present situation.

"No Judge,"….. Mark answered softly, the smile fading from his face. " I **don't** think it's very funny."

"Well then tell me where you've been." Hardcastle demanded. "It's not like I keep you here under lock and key like some kind of prisoner you know."

"I just went out for a drive, that's all" McCormick lied again, looking away.

"Aw, come on McCormick, **DON'T** feed me that garbage. Tell me the **TRUTH**. Are you in some kind of trouble? " Hardcastle asked, a hint of the worry he felt, creeping into his voice.

"Don't worry about it, Judge; It's **my** problem and **MY** business. " McCormick answered. Turning to leave, he was stopped abruptly by Hardcastle's hand on his arm.

"It's none of **MY** business? Is **THAT** what you're tellin' me, McCormick? " The Judge answered angrily.

Mark gazed at the Judge's hand gripping his arm and his eyes rose to meet Hardcastle's,

"Yeah….that's **EXACTLY** what I'm saying." McCormick answered and jerked his arm angrily out of the Judge's grasp.

"Well, let me refresh your memory, McCormick! **YOUR **business **IS** my business as long as you're in my custody! Or don't you remember that?" Waiting briefly for an answer and getting none, he continued. "If that agreement doesn't suit you anymore, then maybe we'd better review our arrangement. Is **THAT **what you want Kid?"

McCormick sighed deeply and stared at the ground, saying nothing.

"**Well, is it**?" Hardcastle prompted impatiently, waiting for an answer.

"No, Judge." McCormick finally answered quietly. " It's not what I want."

"Alright then!" Hardcastle lightened up. " **NOW** we're getting somewhere! Now **WHAT'S** the problem? Let me help."

"It's nothing, Judge." McCormick said softly, "I'll get it straightened out."

Sighing deeply, Hardcastle rubbed his forehead. " You're stubborn as a mule, do you know that .kid?"

McCormick said nothing but gazed longingly at the path to the gatehouse.

"Okay McCormick, you win. Why don't we forget the whole thing for now and you go up and get some rest. When you get up, we'll finish up a few things around here before the guests start showing up. We've got a party to throw tonight you know. We'll get back to this later. "

Startled, McCormick looked questioningly into Hardcastle's eyes. " You mean…..you want **ME** to come to your party?"

"Well of course I expect you to come! " Hardcastle snorted, "What did you think I was gonna do…Keep you locked up in the attic when company came?"

"I just didn't think"…..McCormick stammered, "I mean….. there are gonna be Judges and lawyers and i**mportant** people there. I didn't think you would want me there."

"You **gotta** stop thinking of yourself like that. Kid. The only thing that's wrong with you is that you made a few mistakes, and **THAT'S** all behind you . What's past is past, just **DON'T **blow it now. Do you know what I mean?" Hardcastle looked into Mark's eyes, trying to make a connection . " If you're in some kind of trouble McCormick…..let me know so I can help you."

Thinking to himself, he added one more tidbit of advice. "You've got to raise your level of self esteem. To succeed in life, you have to have a confident self image…..by the way, I learned **THAT** on Geraldo's show so don't knock it. Now get to bed so you can get some rest!"

Smiling, McCormick studied Hardcastle for a long moment. " Thanks Judge, I'll see you in a little bit."

As he drifted off to sleep a short time later, Hardcastle's words haunted him. The Judge's trust and confidence in him made what he must now do all the more painful.

**Chapter Twenty Two**

The faint sound of music and laughter drifted through an open window and reached McCormick as he made his way slowly toward the swimming pool. A warm breeze stirred the soft night air and he was grateful to have escaped the party to enjoy a few moments of solitude.

Beyond the pool, the full moon glistened on the ocean far below the cliffs. This evening would have seemed perfect except…..for the fact that this could very well be the last one he would ever spend here.

A particularly raucous burst of laughter brought his thoughts once more to the party inside. Although honored that Hardcastle had wanted him there, McCormick could not help but feel out of place among the Judge's friends.

Many of the guests had seemed genuinely friendly, but McCormick could not escape the feeling that others had eyed him up and down as though he had "ex-con" tattooed across his forehead, perhaps accompanied by a swastika.

Then, there was the guest of honor, who had measured up to and surpassed Hardcastle's description. Ted Walsh was, without a doubt, the biggest windbag McCormick had ever seen. He'd been conducting a steady, never ending monologue since the moment he'd arrived, regaling all who would listen of his various achievements and experiences.

It had been interesting to watch Hardcastle's facial expressions as Judge Walsh had droned on through the evening. In fact, McCormick realized with some surprise, he would probably have enjoyed himself thoroughly at the party if it were not for the current situation.

Not really wishing to return to the party, McCormick continued to stroll slowly around the grounds. The only other person he'd known there anyway, had been Frank Harper, and he hadn't seen either he or the Judge for the past hour. He had far too much on his mind right now for idle chatter anyway.

With a deep sigh, Mark gazed at the stars overhead, shining brightly in the clear summer sky, and felt very alone. As he continued to walk, he glanced toward the gatehouse and his heart skipped a beat.

For a brief second, he was unsure what had caught his attention. Had he imagined it? But no…..there it was again! A faint glimmer of a light passing by window. A flashlight?

Frowning, he headed down the path at a jog, and was suddenly aware that he had no idea what he would do when he got there.

Fleetingly, he thought about telling Hardcastle or Frank Harper, but he instantly vetoed the idea. If the "visitor" in the gatehouse had something to do with Tyson, and was not merely a burglar, the Judge really needn't know about it.

As he got nearer, McCormick scanned the area for anything that might serve as a weapon. Spying a garden rake he'd left leaning against a tree, he picked it up but immediately rejected it both for it's light weight, and awkward length.

Tossing it down, he turned back toward the gatehouse and tripped on something lying at his feet. Reaching down, he felt the familiar handle of the shorter and heavier shovel he'd used that same day.

Picking it up, he hefted it experimentally in his hands, gripping the handle like a baseball bat. Satisfied, he headed for the gatehouse, grateful that Hardcase had never broken him of the habit of leaving things wherever he'd used them last.

Slowly, he turned the doorknob and opened the door a crack, straining to see into the darkness. A dim light shown from the loft where someone was apparently searching his bedroom.

Stealthily, he crept into the house and started up the stairs. With each step, his heart seemed to beat louder, the pulse pounding in his ears.

Without even being aware of it, he adjusted the grip on the shovel as he listened to the sounds of the intruder sorting hastily through his belongings.

Adrenalin rushing through his body, McCormick tightened his grip on the shovel handle and wished he would find Tyson himself at the top of the stairs.

So intent was he on the intruder in the loft that he never heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

At the last moment, he sensed, rather than heard, the approaching danger and turned, much too late, to face his attacker.

Strong hands gripped his arms and slammed him against the wall. Startled, McCormick lost his grip on the shovel and watched helplessly as it tumbled into the darkness at the foot of the stairs.

Grappling desperately with his attacker, Mark heard footsteps racing down the stairs from the loft and in moments, it was two against one.

Roughly, he was dragged down the stairs, and to his total shock, he suddenly felt a burning sensation in his arm.

For a millisecond, he was unaware what they had done to him, but as he began to feel dizzy, McCormick realized that he'd been injected with something.

In just a few brief moments, he was no longer any threat to his attackers and amid cruel laughter, he was roughly thrown to the floor.

**Chapter Twenty Three**

Through the closed door of his study, Milton C Hardcastle could hear the laughter and music of his party, now in full swing.

Dismally, he looked at the pictures spread on the desk before him. Sighing, he rubbed his forehead and searched his mind for some logical explanation for what he was seeing.

"Milt, I'm sorry to bring this to you now, in the middle of your party, but it just couldn't wait." Frank Harper apologized, and studied Hardcastle's face for a reaction. "Those pictures were sent to the office just a little while ago. Do you recognize the location?"

"I **know** where they were taken." Hardcastle answered tersely, " The airport where the dead pilot was found, so **what's** your point?"

Picking up one of the photos, the Judge studied it closely. It was one of a series of crisp, clear pictures of McCormick engaged in what could be, knowing what went on at that airport, a drug deal!

The first several, showed McCormick talking with two other men at the entrance to an airport hanger. The other picture focused soley on McCormick carrying a briefcase to the Coyote.

"Come on Milt, you know what that looks like." Frank answered defensively.

Ignoring the comment, Hardcastle slid one of the photos back across the desk to Harper. "Who are these other two guys?"

"The one on the right is…**was** the pilot. We don't have a really clear shot of the other one. " Frank paused briefly, hesitant to continue. "Look, I don't know what to think either. I would have never believed that Mark would get involved with something like this, but what am I supposed to think when I see these pictures and know what that pilot was in to?"

" Listen, I don't care **what **you think, or what it **looks** like but I **KNOW** McCormick isn't involved with this. At least **NOT** the way you think." Hardcastle's voice rose as he spoke.

"Are you sure about that Milt? You made a mistake once before, remember? " Frank spoke cautiously, knowing that J.J. Beal was a sore subject with the Judge.

"**That** was different Frank!" Hardcastle exploded. "I've been livin' with this kid for over a year! Don't you think I would notice if he was using drugs and selling them!"

"Like I said, Milt…..I don't know **what** to think. Have you noticed anything different lately? Any change in his habits? Any unusual behavior?

"**NO!**" Hardcastle lied, trying not to think about McCormick's recent behavior.

"I **HAD** to ask, you know that don't you, Milt. I don't like this any more than you do."

Getting no reply from Hardcastle, Frank pushed farther. " I **have** to talk to Mark about this. I'd like to see him tonight."

For a long moment, Hardcastle said nothing, then wordlessly, he rose from his chair and headed for the door. Without looking back, he spoke. "You wait here, I'll find him."

When Hardcastle had gone, Frank took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, gazing at the pictures on his desk. Pictures he wished he'd never seen.

**Chapter Twenty Four**

The Laughter and the voice were unmistakable and as someone turned on the light, McCormick tried to focus his eyes on the all too familiar face of his old nemesis.

"What's the matter, Ace? Aren't you feelin' well?" Jack laughed sarcastically.

Jack's voice seemed to echo eerily, and as McCormick tried to climb to his hands and knees the room spun madly.

"Mr. Tyson was real sorry to have missed you at the trucking company the other night. But you know what, kid? We're gonna take you on a little trip to see him!"

Again, the cruel laughter echoed in McCormick's ears. He tried desperately to understand Jack's words but they seemed garbled and Mark suddenly found it difficult to concentrate on anything for very long.

Slowly, McCormick struggled to his feet, staggering drunkenly as he tried to keep his balance. His attackers no longer attempted to restrain him, for he was no longer any threat to them. Leaning heavily on the back of the couch, McCormick watched the activities of Jack and his partner.

Jack stayed close by, though there was no worry about any attempt by Mark to escape. Meanwhile, the other man moved throughout the gatehouse.

What were they doing?...Was he looking for something? Mark could not focus his thoughts long enough to come to any conclusion.

Then, he was aware that he was being guided rather roughly, toward the front door. A hand fumbled with his shirt pocket, shoving something into it.

McCormick's eyes widened in horror as he recognized the small package of white power, and even in his confused mental state, Jack's words suddenly made everything crystal clear.

"Here you are, Ace. A little present from Mr. Tyson. I'll bet your buddy the Judge never even knew he was livin with a junkie. He's gonna be real disappointed when they find this on your body!"

They had just reached the door when it was flung open and they were face to face with Milton C. Hardcastle.

"What the **HELL'S** going on! " He demanded.

In a split second, Jack had released his grip on McCormick's arm and he collapsed to his knees.

As if in a dream, Mark watched Hardcastle chase the two men into the darkness after they'd bolted from the gatehouse.

Sometime Later, he became vaguely aware of Hardcastle's return. Although he could comprehend little of what was being said, McCormick would never forget the look of shock and disappointment on the Judge's face as he examined one of the small packages of cocaine that Jack and his partner had left as evidence.

He longed to offer an explanation, but was too hampered by his present condition and as the room spun wildly around him…..McCormick's world faded to black.

**Chapter Twenty Five**

Harcastle breathed a sigh of momentary relief when he assessed McCormick's condition and determined that, his breathing was deep and regular and his pulse was relatively normal. It at least appeared that he was in no immediate danger. The alternative would be to call for an ambulance meaning that he would have little chance of getting to the bottom of this mess or having **any** chance of clearing McCormick. **THAT** was an alternative that he could not live with .

His mind was in a state of turmoil as he pondered his options. As an officer of the court, he certainly knew that the legal, by the book, correct thing would be to go to the main house and tell Frank Harper about this recent, horrifying development.

There had been, in his career, certain moral vs. legal decisions he had been forced to make. Cases where he had been forced to hand down a sentence upholding the letter of the law while knowing in his heart that there were moral, justifiable reasons that a "crime" had been committed. McCormick's had in fact been such a case. Although he had done the "right" thing in these cases, some of them had never the less haunted him.

Perhaps they were the very reason he had implemented his plan to give certain individuals a second chance while they in turn helped him to pursue others who, on the other side of the coin had escaped justice totally by a mere technicality. A plan that had been relatively unsuccessful, backfiring on more than one occasion and causing considerable gossip and consternation among his peers.

This time…he knew in his heart as he watched McCormick sleep, he would **not**, at least for now, do the "right" thing. He needed to buy some time so that he could get to the bottom of this whole nightmare.

So….as he settled McCormick as comfortably as possible, he headed for the house to lie, for one of the first times in his life in to a friend and colleague.

**Chapter Twenty Six**

Frank Harper rubbed the back of his neck trying to ease the nagging headache he'd awakened with. This whole thing with McCormick was very troubling. The fact that he had pulled a disappearing act in the middle of the party did not look good and Frank dreaded the implication. If his instincts were right about McCormick the outcome would be devastating to Hardcastle.

Gull's way seemed strangely deserted this morning and as he rang the doorbell for the fourth time, he began to think that no one was home.

Glancing at his watch, Frank frowned. It seemed unlikely that the Judge would be up and gone so early in the morning after the party last night.

As he was about to give up and leave, the door suddenly opened. The Judge was fully dressed and obviously ready to leave. His appearance was disheveled, as though he had not slept last night, and he looked surprised…..no not surprised…. **DISMAYED** to see Frank! For a moment, neither man spoke.

"You're not gonna let me stand out here all day are you, Milt?" Frank smiled nervously. " Got a cup of coffee for a slightly hung over buddy?"

"Sorry, Frank" Hardcastle held the door open. " Come on in."

Closing the door behind them, he set the keys on the table and headed for the kitchen, returning quickly with a luke-warm cup of coffee.

"McCormick isn't here Frank. He left sometime early this morning."

"I figured that when I didn't see the Coyote" Frank sipped at the coffee and grimaced. " He **WAS** here last night though, wasn't he."

Sighing, Hardcastle looked away. "Yeah…..he was here and you're right, he's involved in this thing somehow, but **NOT** the way you think!"

"So where do we go from here Milt? Do I just haul him in for questioning?"

"**NO!**" Hardcastle cut him off. "We've known each other for a long time Frank, and I'm asking you for a favor. I want you to give me twenty four hours to try and make some sense of this thing."

Harper looked incredulous. "Do you have **ANY** idea what they'll do to me if they find out I've withheld information concerning a current investigation, **WHICH** I might add involves a **MURDER**? The media will crucify me if they find out!"

"Do **YOU** have any idea what will happen to McCormick if I can't get this mess straightened out?" Hardcastle looked directly into Frank Harper's eyes. " If he's linked in **ANY **way to something like this, he'll be sent back inside for twenty years and there won't be a **DAMN** thing I can do to stop it!"

Hardcastle paused momentarily then continued, desperation tearing at his voice. "It'd **KILL** him Frank!" He pleaded. "Mark's a good kid, you **KNOW** that. He doesn't deserve this. Twenty-four hours…that's all I ask.

Already knowing what his answer would be, Frank pursed his lips and sighed, envisioning his career going right down the dumper.

"Okay Milt. I'll sit on this thing for twenty four hours and then, I'm gonna **have** to talk to Mark if I have to put out an APB on him and drag him down to the station.

"**Now** yer cookin', Frank!" Hardcatle smiled broadly for the first time, slapping him on the back as they headed for the door.

"Yeah," he answered sarcastically, " that's what I'm afraid of!"

Reaching the door, Frank turned to face his friend, smiling sadly. " I wouldn't do this for anyone but you and McCormick, you know that don't you."

"Thanks, Frank." Hardcastle smiled warmly, " I knew I could count on you."

As he watched the lieutenant drive off, Hardcastle hoped that twenty four hours would be enough for a miracle.

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

As the Judge tried to locate McCormick through various sources and contacts, it seemed, for all the world, as if he'd disappeared from the face of the earth.

With each passing hour, he felt a stronger sense of hopelessness.

He had even at one point, found himself driving randomly through the streets of L.A. hoping to catch a glimpse of the Coyote.

Returning to Gull's Way at dusk, the Judge hoped desperately that McCormick would be waiting there for him with **some** kind of explanation.

His hopes were dashed though as he pulled up to the garage. The Coyote was not in it's accustomed spot, and the estate was obviously deserted.

As the remainder of the evening dwindled away, it became apparent that McCormick had no intention of returning.

Feeling at the same time angry at and frightened for McCormick, Hardcastle gazed out the window at the driveway for the hundredth time. "_What the hell've you got yourself mixed up with kid_?" he wondered as unpleasant possibilities flooded hi s thoughts.

Finally deciding to get some sleep and continue the search in the morning, the Judge turned off the lights and went to bed.

As he tried to fall asleep, he was haunted by memories of another time…..another ex-con. Drifting off to a light, fitful sleep, two faces occupied his dreams,, Mark McCormick, and J.J. Beal.

**Twenty Eight**

Flying down the Pacific Coast Highway, the cool night air felt exhilarating. McCormick felt totally alert for the first time since the attack. The effects of the drug he'd been injected with had finally worn off and as he drove, he tried to sort out the hazy images of the previous evening.

He remembered very little after the attack until waking sometime late at night, disoriented, confused and alone.

Somehow, he'd made it to the Coyote and escaped into the darkness wishing to get as far away from Gull's Way as possible.

Tyson had now succeeded in severing the bond he'd shared with the Judge. **THAT **realization **HURT!** The only clear memory Mark **HAD **retained of the evening was the look on Hardcastle's face as he had discovered the bag of cocaine which had fallen from his pocket in the scuffle.

Having spent the better part of the day parked in a remote wooded area sleeping off the effects of the drug, McCormick had somehow avoided being spotted by the police who must surely by now be looking for him.

Though it was risky, he now headed back toward Gull's Way one last time to retrieve the small amount of cash he had stashed there and some clothes and belongings.

As much as it pained him, Mark knew that he would have to find transportation less distinctive than the Coyote to avoid being apprehended. The cash would come in handy.

Pulling the car behind some bushes just inside the entrance gate to avoid being seen by passing patrol cars, he killed the engine. Cautiously, he began to walk along the driveway toward the gatehouse.

It was now well after midnight and McCormick glanced at the darkened main house, grateful that he would not have to confront the Judge.

Easing the door open, he slipped inside the gatehouse and made his way in total darkness to the desk drawer that contained his wallet. Slipping it into his pocket, he ran up the stairs to the loft and after drawing the curtains, turned on the small table lamp.

Grabbing a duffel bag from the closet, he hurriedly filled it with randomly chosen articles of clothing and belongings.

Pausing momentarily from his frantic packing, McCormick took a favorite racing trophy from the shelf. Running his hand lovingly over the textured wooden columns and polished marble base, he fondly remembered the day he won it.

So carefree those days had seemed, he thought wistfully. It seemed a lifetime ago. Sadly, he carefully returned it to the shelf and snatched up the duffle bag.

He had made it down the stairs and almost to the door when it was flung violently open. His eyes widened in shock as he found himself face to face with the business end of a double barrel shotgun.

As he recognized McCormick in the dim light from the loft, the Judge lowered the gun and turned on the overhead light.

Squinting in the bright light, he said nothing for long moments and stared with what McCormick perceived as disgust.

"You planning a little trip, McCormick?" He asked with no humor in the question.

"Yeah, Hardcase… I've had it with this squeaky clean life style of yours and I'm gettin' the hell out of here." McCormick lied, his tone and attitude belligerent and hostile.

"Don't give me that bullshit McCormick, you're covering something up. Now what's going on?" Hardcastle demanded angrily. " I **KNOW** you're not involved in anything to do with drugs!"

"Yeah , well ….maybe you don' t know me as well as you think." Picking up the duffle bag, McCormick scooped up his spilled belongings and jammed them angrily back inside. " **Maybe** you don't **really** know me at all!"

Closing the door behind him and leaning the shotgun against the wall, Hardcastle met McCormick's angry stare, searching for the truth.

"Sorry Kid, I'm not buyin' it. You've been living with me for a year now and I **KNOW** you'd never do something like this voluntarily.

Watching McCormick's expression , Hardcastle could not help but think how much the kid reminded him of a trapped animal….alone…desperate…..and afraid. "Don't shut me out McCormick. Talk to me, let me help. We can work this thing out whatever the problem is."

For a long moment, Mark considered the Judge's plea. He longed to confide in his friend, but Tyson's threats came vividly to mind and he knew he must now sever all ties with Hardcastle to protect him. There **was** no other option. In desperation, he lashed out savagely, each word cutting like a knife.

"You **REALLY **don't get it do you? ….Well I'll spell it out for you. I **USE** people, Hardcastle, **JUST** like my old man. **YOU** were nothing to me but an easy meal ticket…my ticket out of that **HELL HOLE** that **YOU **put me in! Well now something better's come along. I don't need **YOU** anymore!

The words hurt….they wounded deeper than any physical attack could. The Judge searched McCormick's eyes for a glimmer of the likeable, good natured young man that he had thought he'd begun to know so well. "You don't mean that Kid. I know you better than that. " Hardcastle spoke softly, his voice calm, belying the desperation he felt.

"Don't I ? Just **watch** me!" Clutching the duffle bag tightly, McCormick moved toward the door.

" So when the going gets tough you're gonna run away…..**JUST** like your old man."

The Judge's words struck a nerve and stopped McCormick dead in his tracks.

Now, face to face with the Hardcastle, he continued his tirade. "Judge, **WISE UP**! This is **REAL** life, not some stupid Lone Ranger comic book. You can't change the whole world and you can't change what a person **IS! **…This just wasn't meant to be."

Agonizingly, Mark saw the hurt and bewilderment in Hardcastle's eyes. His heart ached at the pain he was causing.

"I don't know what you've gotten yourself involved with, but what I **DO** know is that you're playing with fire, and when you play with fire, you get burned Kiddo."

Feeling utterly frustrated, he studied McCormick's expression in vain for a sign that he was getting through to the kid. "You know….. if you walk out that door, there's not a damn thing I can do to help you."

"I don't **WANT** you're help any more!" McCormick responded angrily " So unless you're gonna use that gun on me, get **outa** my way!"

Sighing wearily, Hardcastle realized that the argument was going nowhere and suddenly he felt very tired and very beaten. Stepping aside, he gestured at the door. " Have it your way, but don't think you're gonna get away with this. Frank's been looking for you since yesterday."

Wordlessly, McCormick pushed past the Judge.

"McCormick !" Hardcastle called and Mark stopped and turned to face him one last time. "Just Think about what you're doing," He pleaded.

Though neither man spoke, McCormick's expression softened and for a brief moment, became familiar again…then he slipped into the darkness and was gone.

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

The Morning sunlight streaming cheerfully through the blinds and into the study did little for the Judges' mood or headache. He'd slept very little last night and was **NOT** happy with the direction the present conversation was heading.

"**Twenty-four hours**, Milt. You **SAID** twenty-four hours!" Frank Harper shook his head in disbelief. "You **KNOW** how much I went out on a limb for you already!"

"Look Frank, all I'm asking you to do is tail him for awhile and see what turns up. It's not it's gonna do **EITHER **of us any good to drag McCormick in right now." Hardcastle spoke slowly and deliberately to get his point across. " If you bring him in now, I won't have a chance in **H****ELL** of clearing him. Once the D.A. gets hold of this, he'll hang a twenty year sentence on the Kid, then pat himself on the back for wrapping up another case! The **BIG** guys…. the ones you **REALLY **need to nail, will get off scot free!"

"What makes you so sure that McCormick's innocent?" Harper drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "Maybe he got tired of trimming your hedges. MAYBE…. he decided to go into business for himself. Did you ever think of that?"

"Aw come on, Frank!" Hardcastle exploded. " You know McCormick better than that!"

"All I'm saying Milt, is that **YOU** of all people, should know how many ex-cons end up going back inside. " Harper paused, letting his words sink in. " I like Mark too, but you've got to admit, this don't look too good. Or **MAYBE** you're just too close to see it."

Hardcastle pinched the bridge of his nose , trying to ease the tension headache, brought on by anticipating this confrontation. "Listen Frank… there's something I didn't tell you about the night of the party."

"I'm listening. " Frank crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Hardcastle sighed deeply, trying to compose his thoughts and choose his words carefully. "When I went down to the gatehouse to find McCormick, he was there…but he was…..in a bad way, you know? Confused…..disoriented…" Suddenly unable to meet Harper's eyes, he looked away, frowning. " He was pretty well out of it."

"You mean he was on **drugs**?" Frank interrupted incredulously.

"**NO!"** The Judge cut him off, "Not **ON** drugs, **DRUGGED**!" There were a couple of goons down there with him and I think they were getting ready to take him on a one way ride, if you know what I mean.

Harper said nothing as he absorbed the information.

"Here, take a look at this." Hardcastle tossed a packet of white powder across the desk to Harper. " I found a number of these scattered through the gatehouse, and **ONE **of them fell out of McCormick's shirt pocket!"

"Cocaine?" Frank examined the packet closely.

"Yeah." Hardcastle nodded. " Someone's trying to set the kid up. I think he was supposed to take a big fall for someone that night, **AND**…..I found more of that stuff in **MY** study!"

"So someone's trying to set **BOTH** of you up?" Harper asked, tossing the packet of cocaine onto the desk.

"Either that, or they're using McCormick to get to **ME**."

"I don't suppose you have **ANY** idea who might be out to get you?" Frank asked, not really expecting an answer.

"HA!" Hardcastle laughed sarcastically, "That's a good one, Frank! Yeah…..I'd say I've made a few enemies here and there. Then there's McCormick with that smart mouth of his. I'm surprised someone hasn't closed it for him permanently before now.

He stopped abruptly, suddenly aware of the implication of his last sentence. The thought sent a chill through him.

I wish I hadn't left him in the gatehouse the night of the party. I wanted to buy some time so I could try to figure things out. By the time the party ended and I got everyone out of here…..he was gone. I have **no** idea how he managed to get away in the condition he was in…but he did.

"I'm losin' him, Frank." He spoke quietly, "And I don't even know why."

For several moments, Harper did not answer, unsure how to respond. With a sinking heart, he considered the options, of which there were few. Gazing around the room, he focused on a photograph he'd never noticed before.

A young boy, dressed in a little league uniform, beaming with pride after a big win. Grimy from play, his hat slightly askew, and his hair tossled, the boy brought to mind a Norman Rockwell painting.

Behind him, a radiant young woman, impeccably dressed and equally proud, stood with her hands on his shoulders.

A shining moment, frozen in time. Smiling faces preserved on film, transcending the years to make a memory live again….smiles of a wife and son long dead and gone.

Sadly, Frank remembered the tragedies that had befallen the Judge. More sorrow than any man should have to bear in a lifetime.

As he studied the photo, he found himself wondering what McCormick would have looked like at that age. Something about the boy's expression reminded him of Mark, and sighing, Frank knew that he would do all in his power to spare Hardcastle another heartache.

"Okay Milt, I suppose we can play this thing conservatively for a little while longer." He offered resignedly.

"I'll have him shadowed for awhile and see what we can turn up, **PROVIDING**, we **CAN** find him and he doesn't do a disappearing act on us!"

Brightening, Harcastle smiled. "Alright! NOW we're getting somewhere! Now….I want to be notified as soon as you find him!"

"Don't worry, Milt, you'll be the first to know **AND** I expect the same from **YOU**." Preparing to leave, Harper stood and pointed a finger at the Judge.

"I **KNOW** you and you're not gonna be sitting here twiddling your thumbs. If you hear **ANYTHING** from any of your contacts, I want to know!"

Unable to shake the uneasy feeling he had about the case, Harper turned to face Hardcastle as they reached the door.

If the Judge's theory was correct and McCormick **WAS** involved with some heavy hitter, it was essential that he be located quickly.

"Milt… I hope this turns out okay. Mark's got himself in a real scrape. This could turn out real bad…he could end up dead."

For a long moment, Hardcastle said nothing, but his expression told Harper that he knew very well the danger that McCormick was in.

"Well," …he smiled sadly and patted Frank on the shoulder, "We're just not gonna let that happen are we."

As he drove from Gull's Way, Frank hoped with all his heart that his instincts about this case were wrong.

The fact that Milt obviously expected hi m to pull a rabbit out of the hat and somehow clear McCormick was certainly troubling, and try as he might….he could foresee no happy ending.

That sobering thought stayed with him long after he'd left the estate.

**Chapter Thirty**

Bumping along the narrow, pot holed alley with housed Alex's apartment building, McCormick squinted into the darkness, searching for the right address. His one visit here had been in daylight, and now nothing seemed to look familiar.

The street lay deserted now. No arrogant, self important teens, hanging around on the street corner looking for trouble…..no children playing in the filth…..even the drunks had found some safe refuge for the night.

At the last moment, almost too late to stop, he recognized the building and swerved into a parking spot, scraping the side of the Coyote on a high curb in the process.

Climbing out of the car, he surveyed the damage and winced before he remembered with regret that it no longer mattered.

Anger welled up in him again at the realization of his ruined life, and he raced up the stairs and into the building, unsure of what he planned to do once he located Alex.

**Chapter Thirty One**

Across the street, a man pushed tattered curtains out of the way and gazed with sudden interest through binoculars from a third floor apartment.

Reaching to his left without taking his eyes off of the red car below, he nudged his sleeping partner awake. "What have we got here?" He murmured feeling a tinge of excitement. " Hey Marty, take a look. I think we just got lucky!"

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Marty took the offered binoculars and studied the scene below. "Well, I'll be damned!" He exclaimed in amazement. "That's the guy the Lieutenant's so interested in, I can just read the license plate on the car!"

Putting down the glasses, he turned to face his partner. " He's Judge Hardcastle's kid ain't he?"

"Naw! Not his kid, just some ex-con he took in." Bob Morgan's expression registered the contempt he felt. "That **REALLY** burns me! Some bleedin' heart Judge takes in a piece of garbage out of prison and treats him like he _**IS**_ somebody!"

Gesturing to the street below, he snatched the binoculars from Marty. " Don't you just **LOVE **it? That **son of** **a bitch** ex-con lives better than me and you!"

Puzzling, Marty watched McCormick enter the building. "What's **THAT** kid got to do with **OUR** suspect though, that's what I'd like to know. What's the connection?"

"Who the hell knows!" Bob answered angrily, " The department don't tell us **NOTHING **!"

"Well, I guess we'd better call it in." Marty reached for a cellular phone in a briefcase. "Lieutenant Harper wanted to be informed.

"**NO**!" Hold off for little while" Bob grabbed his arm before he could use the phone. " I want to watch em for awhile and see what's going on. If you call the Lieutenant, he'll storm over here and take over!"

" Bob…we have orders!" Marty said as he stared at Bob's hand on his arm.

" **NO**!...we'll call it in to Harper when they start to move and not before. **I'M** in charge here !

Marveling once again at Bob's total lack of concern about proper procedure, Marty reluctantly put the phone back into the briefcase.

**Chapter Thirty Two**

As McCormick made his way up the staircase in nearly total darkness, he wondered what he would do when he located Alex. Though he felt like wringing his neck, he tried to remember that the main objective was to find some way to bring Tyson down.

The question was, **DID **Alex know anything that would be of any use at all?

The ancient staircase creaked and groaned with each footstep, the sounds seemingly amplified in the still of the night. The building was quiet now, no squalling baby…no crooning winos…..no sound at all.

As he reached the fourth floor, McCormick paused to catch his breath as he tried to adjust his eyes to the murky lighting.

Only one bulb burned on this entire floor and the darkness seemed to envelope him like a shroud.

Making his way to Alex's apartment, he peered closely at the number on the door to assure himself that he had the right address. An awful doubt assailed his mind that Alex might have given him a false address when he'd pressed him earlier.

Praying that he did indeed have the right one, McCormick knocked lightly on the door. His heart skipped a beat as it swung open at his touch, rusty hinges crying out for oil.

Fist still raised, McCormick peered cautiously inside, fearing the worst. In the dim light cast by an overturned lamp, he could plainly see the destruction,… sparse furniture turned over and thrown about, meager belongings strewn across the floor.

Slowly, he entered the apartment, his eyes darting nervously, searching for any sign of movement. Though his first instinct was to call out for Alex, Mark remained silent, fearing that the cause of the destruction before him was still in the apartment.

Glancing around in search of anything that might be used as a weapon, he quickly settled for a broken chair leg near his feet.

A quick look around the combination living room and kitchen satisfied him. That left two remaining rooms, both with closed doors.

Silently, he made his way toward the first door. With each step it seemed that his heart beat faster and louder.

McCormick pushed the door slowly open with the chair leg, revealing a small, obviously empty bathroom. Moving to the other door he slowly opened it, standing aside, expecting the worse.

The light of a T.V. set, which had somehow escaped destruction, flickered eerily in the darkened room like a strobe light. The rest of the room was in the same state as the other. Broken glass from a shattered mirror crunched loudly under foot and sparkled in the light from the T.V.

Gripping the chair leg like a baseball bat, McCormick surveyed the room and slowly made his way to the center.

A sudden movement caught his eye and he spun to face it, his grip tightening on the chair leg. Catching his breath, he smiled with relief as he saw that the movement was nothing more than a curtain fluttering in the breeze from the open window. McCormick relaxed slightly and moved toward the window.

A bloodcurdling scream reached his ears at the same moment he was slammed from behind onto the floor. Gasping, he rolled onto his back to face his attacker, adrenaline rushing, eyes wide with shock and more than a little fear.

Groping frantically to find the chair leg, which had been knocked from his grasp, McCormick suddenly froze as the barrel of a gun was leveled at his face.

In that moment, he fully expected to die and found himself considering, rather abstractly, that his whole life was **NOT** passing before his eyes as it was supposed to!

Raising his eyes from the gun barrel, he met his "killer's" eyes for the first time and was stunned

"**ALEX!**" He cried in horror as he recognized with some difficulty, the face of his friend. " **ALEX**! It's **ME**…McCormick!"

Alex's face was bruised and swollen, almost beyond recognition. One eye was swollen nearly shut, and his nose was obviously broken. Blood flowed freely from a multitude of cuts.

Slowly…. ever so slowly, McCormick got up to face his friend. For a moment, he stood quietly, then he gently raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "Take it easy, Alex, it's **ME**, your old buddy Skid."

Alex's eyes registered no recognition and the only sound in the room was his breathing, which came in short, ragged gasps. Arms outstretched, he clutched the revolver tightly in both hands.

To McCormick's horror, he watched Alex's hands tighten on the gun, his knuckles white. His finger toyed dangerously with the trigger as if he were trying to decide whether to pull it or not!

Closing his eyes, McCormick swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. Listening to Alex's ragged breathing, he tried to keep his own slow and even. A bead of sweat rolled off of his forehead.

Opening his eyes, he raised them from the gun barrel to meet Alex's.

"Alex, you don't want to shoot **ME** do you? It's **ME**….good old McCormick!"

For the first time, he thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in Alex's eyes and feeling encouraged, he continued.

"Who did this to you, Alex? " He asked softly. "Tell me, we'll get em together…..let me help."

For several long moments, Alex continued to stare at McCormick, then, for the first time, he broke eye contact. Slowly, with shaking hands, he lowered the gun.

With tears streaming down his face, he sobbed. "Oh Skid!... I thought they were gonna **KILL** me!"

Alex's face now registered sheer terror as though he were re-living the attack. "They just kept beating me and beating me, and they wouldn't **STOP**!"

"It's okay, Alex, take it easy, they're gone now and you're alright." McCormick patted his friend awkwardly on the back, uncomfortable with the display of emotion. "Who was it?...Was it Jack and his buddy?" He asked, already knowing the answer even before Alex nodded.

"What did he **want** from you? Mark asked, genuinely puzzled.

"**YOU!** ….. They want **YOU**, Skid! I'm supposed to bring you to meet Tyson tomorrow night or they're gonna **KILL **me!" Alex's voice was now on the verge of utter hysteria.

"Don't worry Alex, I'll be there. I want to see Tyson as much as he wants to see me. I'm gonna take care of that bastard once and for all." Picking up the gun, he examined it closely. "Do you have any more ammo for this thing?"

"Yeah," Alex nodded. "In the drawer over there." Silent for a moment, he swallowed nervously. "You gonna kill him Skid?"

"I don't know what I'm gonna do, Alex, but I **DO** know I'm not gonna walk in there un-armed." Spinning the chamber, he observed that the gun, so recently pointed at his face, was indeed loaded. "Where'd you get this anyway, and why didn't you use it on Jack?"

Lowering his head, Alex mumbled, "I got it from a guy I know, only there wasn't time to get to it when Jack stormed in here."

Snapping the chamber shut, McCormick laid the gun on the table. "Okay, so when do we get to see Tyson?"

Standing, Alex walked to the window and gazed at the darkened street below. "I'm supposed to take you to a house over on Dexter Street tomorrow night."

"Alright," McCormick agreed wearily, "We'll stay here till then but I want to get my car off of the street before it's spotted. It's starting to get light out. Any ideas?"

"Pull it behind the dumpster in the alley beside the building" Alex answered nervously, " But hurry back".

Having done this, McCormick locked the door, slid the bolt and flopped, exhausted, onto the sofa. He slipped off to a restless sleep the minute his head hit the pillow, unaware that as the sun rose and the dismal neighborhood awakened, two men kept a constant vigil from across the street.

_/Pulse pounding in his ears, McCormick ran through the darkness. Mist swirled at his feet as he passed through the entry gate at Gull's Way and his breath came in strained gasps. His lungs cried out for oxygen, threatening to burst, yet a sense of overwhelming urgency drove him on. As the main house came into view at the end of the driveway, it seemed as though he moved in slow motion. _

_Unable to make progress, his legs ached with the effort as though he were running in deep sand._

_Glancing momentarily at his feet, his attention snapped once more toward the main house as a glint of light caught his eye. What he saw there made his blood run cold. The flashing lights of an ambulance and a police car parked by the front door._

_McCormick stopped in his tracks, paralyzed with fear as he watched two paramedics maneuver a gurney through the front door. The lifeless body was covered by a sheet but McCormick knew in his heart who the victim was._

_Following the paramedics slowly from the house, Frank Harper noticed Mark and stopped. Their eyes met, McCormick's wide with disbelief and horror and Harper's pained… conveying great sadness._

_The sadness changed to anger and accusation as they came face to face. "You're __TOO LATE__ McCormick! Hardcastle DEPENDED on you and you let him down. Now he's __DEAD!__"_

"_NO!" Mark shook his head in disbelief. " That's not true!"_

_Harper advanced until only inches separated the two men. "He's DEAD because of what __**YOU**__ got him involved with!" He spat the words, dripping with hatred._

"_NO!" McCormick backed away wanting to shut out the horrible words._

"_You meant EVERYTHING to him McCormick. He treated you like a son and __**YOU KILLED HIM**__!" The words echoed strangely in his ears. /_

"**NO!****!**" The strangled scream caught in his throat as he sat upright on the couch. Disoriented, Mark's breath came in ragged gasps and his eyes darting wildly around the apartment trying to identify his surroundings.

As his heartbeat and breathing returned to normal, he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Glancing over at the bed and seeing Alex sprawled there sleeping, he was surprised that his friend had not awakened with his scream.

McCormick was drenched in sweat, partly from the disturbing nightmare and partly from the oppressive heat in the apartment.

"No air conditioning in this neighborhood." He thought to himself as he checked his watch. He was surprised to see that it was now late afternoon and he'd been asleep for quite some time.

Standing, he stretched, trying to work the kinks out of muscles cramped from sleeping on the worn couch. Moving to the kitchen, he opened the antiquated "Cold Spot" refrigerator musing to himself that it was not even especially cold in there!

The shelves were nearly devoid of food, containing only a carton of eggs and several foil wrapped mystery items. A carton of milk, bulged and obviously spoiled, occupied the door along with several cans of beer.

Selecting one of those, McCormick shuffled over to the window and wearily collapsed onto a kitchen chair. Snapping open the pop top on the beer, he propped his bare feet on the radiator by the window enjoying the coolness of the cast iron.

As he sipped the beer, he gazed down at the street below and considered how different this world was than the one he'd grown accustomed to.

He wondered idly, what was going on right now at Gull's Way. He thought about the tree covered grounds and the sun dappled lawns, lush and green. He could picture in his mind the grass, rippling like waves in the gentle sea breeze coming up over the cliffs from the ocean below.

The estate glittered like a perfect gem in the hills above L.A. It was like a different planet from **THIS **neighborhood!

The street below lay empty, the mid-day heat too much even for the children. A grimy coating of dust covered everything and the sun beat down mercilessly on the asphalt desert below, devoid of shade trees.

With the help of high tech, state of the art sprinkler systems, hard working gardeners and in some cases…..ex-cons, the estates along the Pacific Coast Highway could even manage to avoid the drought that was ravaging the valley, he thought wryly.

Downing the remainder of the beer, McCormick consoled himself with one thought and one thought only. In just a few hours, when darkness fell, they would confront Tyson one final time. Very shortly, this ordeal would be over…..one way or the other.

When McCormick pulled the Coyote from it's hiding place later that evening, his thoughts were so focused on the confrontation ahead, that he never noticed the car following him at a discreet distance.

**Chapter Thirty Three**

Bob Morgan had to make a concerted effort to let up on the gas to keep a reasonable distance from the red sports car he followed. Adrenalin flowed through his system in a pleasant rush at the prospect of some action after the tedious two day stake out he and Marty had just endured.

Marty, sitting in the passenger seat, wiped his mouth nervously as his gaze alternated between the red car and Bob.

Hunched fervently over the steering wheel, Bob's features took on a surrealistic appearance in the illumination of the dashboard lights.

"Hey, Bob….Take it EASY!" Marty nervously admonished. "He ain't goin' nowhere."

Bob ignored the comment and instead picked up the pace slightly, cutting the distance between the cars slightly.

"HEY, **BOB**!" Marty said more forcefully, " Slow down, for Christ's sake…you're gonna blow it! He's gonna see us and take off!"

For a moment that seemed like an eternity, Bob seemed to not hear, or at least not acknowledge Marty's urging. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel and he applied even more pressure to the accelerator. Then, with a sigh of exasperation, he dropped back slightly.

Marty held his breath, watching the red car intently, wondering if they'd been noticed by the driver.

With a sigh of relief, he saw that he pace remained constant. Turning his gaze from the red car to Bob, he studied his partner in silence.

Through the years he'd worked with Bob, he never ceased to be amazed by his reckless disregard for proper procedure.

Bob Morgan had an uncanny knack for doing all the wrong things yet somehow having everything turn out right.

By **no one's** standards could Bob's temperament be considered ideal for a cop. He was belligerent, hostile, and quick tempered, the perfect definition of the term, "loose canon" As far as Marty was concerned . Yet Bob's record showed otherwise. An impressive number of collars running the gamut of crimes from simple theft to homicide.

"The guardian angel of idiots must look after cops like Bob" Marty thought to himself suppressing a smile.

Almost as though Bob had read Marty's mind, he suddenly looked over to see Marty observing him.

"What the **hell** are **you** lookin' at!" he growled as Marty averted his eyes, returning his gaze to the red car.

As they wound through back streets and alleys, Marty's thoughts returned once more to an idea he'd been mulling over more and more frequently lately of the possibility of a transfer!

**Chapter Thirty Four**

Driving to the address on Dexter Street, McCormick pulled by the curb, still unaware of the car some distance behind him that mirrored the move.

Switching off the ignition, McCormick and Alex sat quietly in the Coyote gazing at the darkened house. It and several others bordering it were abandoned, apparently condemned from the look of the area.

Weeds grew high in the yards, and many of the windows were boarded up. Those that were not had been pried open, probably to allow entry to various transients and undesirables.

The house in question, a two story frame, looked no different than it's neighbors, dark and foreboding. There was no outward sign that Tyson was there waiting for their arrival.

It was like walking blindly into an ambush. They could very well be dead before they even reached the door, McCormick thought morbidly.

Approaching the house, McCormick watched for any sign of movement but saw none. Repositioning the gun concealed in his shirt, he took some comfort from it's presence.

Knocking lightly on the door, McCormick listened closely for any sound within, but as the seconds ticked by, he began to fear that they'd made the trip for nothing.

Frustration began to tear at his composure at the prospect of another delay. He desperately wished to end this ordeal …one way or another.

Taking the gun from his shirt, he tried the doorknob, his heart skipping a beat as it turned easily. Slowly, he pushed the door open.

Cautiously entering the house, he reached back, grabbing Alex's shirt to make sure he followed. Although the front window of this particular room was not boarded or broken, tattered draperies prevented the bright moonlight from entering and visibility was almost zero.

Gun in hand, McCormick waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered as the door behind them as slammed shut blocking their escape. At the same moment, McCormick spun toward the door, a match was struck, surprisingly bright in the darkened room.

In it's flickering light, McCormick was stunned to see an automatic weapon leveled directly at his chest. Holding the gun was not Tyson, but Jack!

"I don't think I'd try it if I were you, Ace!" Jack hissed, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "Not unless you want to become part of that wall behind you!"

Hand shaking from rage rather than fear, McCormick realized dismally that before he could take aim and fire, he and Alex would both be dead. Even so, his hand tightened slightly on the gun as he briefly considered his chance of making the shot before he himself were killed.

At this point, he felt that his life, or for that matter, his **death**, was of very little importance. What **WAS** important however, was to take **Tyson** out, **NOT** Jack.

"You got about two seconds before this match burns down or you're both dead, so what's it gonna be?"

Reluctantly, McCormick dropped the gun. He would have to bide his time and hope for another opportunity.

Never taking his eyes off of McCormick and Alex, Jack leaned over and lit a kerosene lantern sitting at his feet.

"Good move, kid! I guess you got some sense after all. Now, kick the gun over here and move to the other side of the room."

Complying, McCormick backed across the room, keeping an eye on Jack.

"Well, I guess you were right when you told me Tyson always gets what he wants. He wanted me to drive for him and here I am…He wins again. I'll drive for him. I'll do **whatever** he wants." McCormick lied. Shrugging his shoulders, he smiled trying not to show any of the fear he was feeling. " You can't blame me for one last try, can you?"

"**SHUT UP!"** Jack growled and waved the gun at them.

In the light cast by the lantern, his eyes glittered, giving him a demonic appearance.

"You're really not too bright are you Ace!...Well let me spell it out for you." Once again, the cruel smile played at his lips. "Tyson never really needed **YOU** from day one! As soon as you went to that airfield with your buddy Alex, you signaled the end for your pal Hardcastle. See, Alex did us a little favor and tampered with the alarm at Gull's Way. You were no sooner down the driveway when we paid a little visit and planted enough evidence to hang him at any time. If you would have driven for Tyson, that would have been the icing on the cake."

Jack smiled sadistically, letting his words sink in. "He was playing games with you and Hardcastle, you dumb son of a bitch!"

McCormick looked away, not wishing to see Jack's sadistic smile any longer. Dejectedly, his gaze wandered around the room as the cruel words hit home. Then, his eyes widened in horror as they froze on a large can of gasoline sitting in the corner.

In that instant, Jack's intentions became all too clear. There would be **NO** meeting tonight or any other time with Tyson.

For that matter, there would be **n****o** future at all for him and Alex! His head snapped up and he met Jack's eyes straight on.

Jack's smile broadened even more. " Yeah, that 's right, pal. It's the end of the line for you and Alex. We're gonna have ourselves a bonfire in a little while!"

Raising the gun, he leveled it at Alex's face laughing as Alex whimpered involuntarily, closing his eyes tightly. "What do you think Ace? Should I do your gutless friend here first, or do you want the first bullet?"

"Don't do this, Jack. Let me talk to Tyson. I can be very valuable to him as a driver and to prove it, **I'll** help him nail Hardcastle **myself** !" McCormick lied, trying desperately to buy some time.

Jack's hand never wavered as he held his aim at Alex's face. "Now **WHY** don't I believe you?" He asked sarcastically.

Something in his voice told McCormick that Jack was considering his proposal and encouraged, he hurriedly continued. I got along okay with Hardcastle because I had too. I **USED** him to get out of prison, but if it's his life or **mine**….who do **YOU** think I'm gonna pick?"

McCormick watched Jack's face intently, unable to read his expression. Breathing a sigh of relief, he watched as Jack slowly lowered the gun.

"Maybe you've got a point, kid." Jack said slowly, apparently mulling the idea over in his mind."Then again…..**MAYBE NOT!"**

Jack raised the gun with lightning speed and fired. McCormick saw the flash from the muzzle of the gun at the same instant that he heard the blast.

In his peripheral vision, McCormick saw Alex's body jerk convulsively backward from the impact of a direct hit to the chest.

At the same moment, McCormick lunged for Jack, knowing that his only chance for survival was to gain control of the gun.

With the desperation of a drowning man, McCormick grappled with Jack, fighting to keep the gun away. To his horror, it seemed as though Jack possessed the strength of several men and with his own strength ebbing he seemed to be losing the battle.

Jack's face, a hideous mask of hatred, loomed inches in front of his as they fought over the gun, now held between their bodies.

An earsplitting blast reverberated through the house as the weapon discharged and Jack stiffened, dropping the gun and clutching at McCormick's shirt.

In that split second, his expression went from hatred, to utter shock and finally…. fear as he sank to the floor.

McCormick, his own eyes wide with shock watched as the life went out of Jack's eyes.

Prying the dead man's hands off of his shirt, he stood and backed away, staring at the body illuminated by the dim light of the lantern.

Turning from the corpse, he moved to Alex's side. One look confirmed McCormick's worse fears. Time was rapidly running out for his friend.

Beads of sweat stood out on Alex's face and his breath came in ragged gasps. He gazed down in shocked silence, and studied the dark stain spreading across his chest even as he watched. As he raised his eyes to meet McCormick's they held the haunted, desperate look of a dying man.

"Skid, he whispered hoarsely, "I'm scared…."

"Don't try to talk, Alex!" McCormick cut him off, his voice edged with panic. "Just lay still….you're gonna be alright."

Even as he spoke, McCormick knew the words of comfort were not true.

Suddenly, without warning, a loud crash echoed through the house and broken glass cascaded into the room from the window.

McCormick spun around in shock just in time to see a teargas canister skitter crazily across the floor. It rolled straight for the kerosene lamp as if drawn there by some unseen force!

As it hit, McCormick winced, expecting a large explosion which never came. Instead, the spilled kerosene ignited with a deceptively benign pop, like the sound of a broken light bulb.

For a brief moment, McCormick froze, mesmerized at the sight of the expanding pool of flames spreading outward from the lamp. Thin tendrils began to work their way up the far wall, feeding on the kerosene that had splashed there. As the fire made contact with the aged wallpaper, it began to spread at a frightening pace.

With horror, McCormick remembered the can of gasoline in the corner.

Panic stricken, he grabbed Alex's shirt, trying to rouse his friend. "**ALEX**! Come on, we **gotta** get out of here !" Getting no response, he took him by the arms and began to drag him to the back of the house, praying that there was another exit.

He had gone just a few feet, when Alex cried out and stiffened in his grasp. His hands clutched frantically at McCormick's shirt, then his body went limp as a rag doll.

As McCormick lowered him to the floor, he knew that the end had come for Alex. Sadly, even in death it seemed that Alex could find no peace. His face wore and expression of agony and terror, his unseeing eyes reflecting the light of the fire which would soon consume him.

"Aw, Alex!..." McCormick half sobbed, overcome with a feeling of utter hopelessness and futility.

Leaving his friend's side, he stumbled blindly through a haze of teargas and smoke, toward the back of the house. Arms outstretched, he nearly ran into a wall that seemed to appear from nowhere.

Feeling his way, McCormick suddenly felt a closed door. Turning the knob, he prayed that it was an exit and not just a closet.

One last backward glance told him that he'd run out of time. Through the smoke, McCormick could see that the corner of the room where the gas can had been was now engulfed in flames.

His heart sank as he opened the door and saw steps leading down into the darkness of the basement.

A blast of heat hit him from behind as currents of super heated air rushed toward him like a speeding freight train, hungrily seeking the fresh supply of oxygen coming up from the basement.

In that split second before the flames and super heated gasses actually hit McCormick, an explosion rocked the house as the can of gasoline ignited.

He was falling…..for what seemed like an eternity, into complete darkness and certain death. Then…McCormick remembered no more.

**Chapter Thirty Five**

Marty and Bob were slammed to the ground by the force of the explosion and shielding their heads with their arms, they were showered with broken glass blown from the front window of the house.

As the torrent of glass abated, Marty stared at the house in amazement through eyes slitted against the sudden brightness. With difficulty, he tore his gaze away and stood, turning to face his partner.

Bob, teargas rifle still in hand, studied the inferno with rapt attention. When he turned to meet Marty's eyes, his expression was not one of regret, but rather an oddly sublime combination of excitement and , to Marty's disgust….enjoyment!"

"**JESUS CHRIST, BOB!** Do you know what the **HELL** you've done? " Marty's voice shook with rage, and his tone had a dramatic effect on Bob. The look of euphoria faded instantly to be replaced by raw, naked fear as the ramifications of his actions hit home.

"**Marty**!...It's not my fault! I **HAD** to do it….. you heard that gunfire in there! The situation was out of hand!"

"**BULLSHIT**!" Marty bellowed, edging closer to Bob. "We're **SUPPOSED** to be surveillance asshole! You're **SUPPOSED** to know proper procedure! We were to **WAIT** for back-up!"

Desperation tore at Bob's voice as he grabbed Marty's arm. "**JESUS**, Marty! You **GOTTA** stand behind me on this! We'll say that they were firing at **US**!...

Without a word, Marty drew back and landed a right cross to Bob's jaw. As Bob landed with a muffled thud to the pavement, Marty stood back and glared down at his partner.

"I'm not gonna do jack **SHIT** for **YOU** anymore Bob….I'm **through** with you!"

Rubbing his jaw gingerly, Bob stared up at Marty in disbelief. "You're gonna let me go down for those two pieces of **garbage** in there?" He waved a hand in the direction of the burning house. "**CHRIST**, they gotta give me a **damn** medal!"

As he waited for a reply which never came, the lights of an approaching black and white unit played across his face as it swung to the side of the road and parked. Following the cruiser was a dark sedan belonging to Lieutenant Frank Harper.

Without so much as a backward glance, Marty left Bob sitting in a dejected heap on the pavement. Slowly, he walked toward the approaching cars, wondering what he would say to Lieutenant Harper.

**Chapter Thirty Six**

A bright light which seemed to pulsate and grow hovered some distance above McCormick. Dimly, he tried to comprehend the image before him.

With a feeling of total detachment, Mark gazed up at the firey glow framed by the doorway at the top of the stairs. As if in a dream, he struggled to identify his surroundings. For what seemed like an eternity, but in reality must have taken only minutes, he felt paralyzed…..unable to move…to think. Even as he became aware of the urgency to escape, he considered the possibility that he could be dreaming, the scene before him had a certain surrealistic quality about it.

Pain, as he pulled himself into a sitting position, cleared his head instantly and panic took the place of confusion.

Desperately, he scanned the basement for an escape route. Visibility was almost zero as dark suffocating smoke poured down the staircase and through the floorboards above. "**Oh GOD NO!"** Mark thought horrified. "I'm gonna **BURN** to death!"

Crawling blindly across the floor, he tried desperately to spot a window in the murky darkness. Squinting his eyes against the smoke, he thought he noticed a slightly lighter area on the wall directly ahead of him.

By now, the heat was becoming intense and the effort to breath was all consuming. The roar of the fire overhead was deafening, and glancing upward, he could actually see the glow of the flames between the floorboards.

Glowing embers and sparks were beginning to rain down from above as McCormick crawled the last few feet to the wall. With great effort, he rose to his feet and clawed at the window.

For one horrifying moment, it would not budge, then, to his relief, it burst open. Using the last ounce of energy he possessed, Mark pulled himself up to the window and squeezed through to freedom.

Gasping for breath, he filled his lungs greedily with cool night air, crawling as far as he could to what he hoped was a safe distance and collapsing in a heap. Wracked by fits of coughing and waves of nausea, he vomited, his body desperate to expel the smoke and fumes he'd inhaled. When he was through, he lay helpless, too weary to move farther, his only comfort the tall cool grass, glistening with dew, which cushioned his head.

Lying there, he gazed passively at the blazing structure, trying to fight off unconsciousness, which threatened to overtake him. Just as he was beginning to lose the battle he startled and raised his head. With a loud whoosh, the first floor of the house collapsed into the basement and a bright burst of sparks exploded from the window which had been his escape route.

**Chapter Thirty Seven**

Turning onto Dexter Street, Lieutenant Frank Harper's mouth fell open in shock at the scene before him. Instead of the usual static, uneventful, even…..boring situation usually encountered at the scene of a stake out, the scene that greeted his eyes more closely resembled World War III .

The street ahead of him was brightly illuminated by a two story house in flames. Although the house was fully involved, no fire company was yet present. Pieces of smoldering debris littered the front yard and street, evidence of a sizeable explosion.

Following the black and white unit as it pulled to the curb, Harper noticed a man sitting dejectedly in the middle of the road. Recognizing him as detective Bob Morgan, he felt a rage building from within.

Pursing his lips, Harper threw the car into park and got out, slamming the door angrily. Striding purposely toward Morgan, he resisted the urge to jump to conclusions before hearing the facts, but in his heart, he knew who was to blame for this catastrophic disintegration of what should have been a routine stake out.

Bob Morgan was, as far as Harper was concerned, a disgrace to the department, and when possible, the Lieutenant avoided using him. In this case, a scheduling conflict had offered no choice.

As he reached Morgan, the detective had climbed to his feet and was in the process of dusting himself off.

"What the **HELL** happened here!" Harper demanded angrily, face to face with Morgan.

"It's a long story Lieutenant." Morgan stammered nervously glancing at Marty who refused to meet his eyes. "Let me try to explain."

"**Yeah**! I think you'd **better**!" Harper answered edging closer yet.

Backing up a step of two, Morgan wiped his mouth nervously as he tried to compose himself. "Well, um….you see…..our suspect teamed up with another party, and …..we were gonna report to you, but there was no time!" Morgan lied, his voice rising and the words coming faster as the story progressed. "The other guy drove a sports car, and it was all we could do to keep up!"

Harper turned as Morgan indicated toward a car parked at the curb.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren could be heard as a fire company approached, and Bob Morgan's voice droned on with the rest of the explanation, but Frank Harper heard neither.

"**Aw**…. **JESUS NO**!" He Mumbled in shock as he recognized the unmistakable lines of the Coyote. In that moment…..it seemed that his heart stopped.

**Chapter Thirty Eight**

A soft breeze swept softly across McCormick's face and played gently at the curls on his forehead. It whispered through the tall grass and the soft rustling sound somehow penetrated his sleep. He moaned softly as he fought to regain consciousness. Feeling like the living dead, he raised his head and tried to identify his surroundings.

Though it was still dark, He guessed that it was nearly dawn. Birds were just beginning to stir, their morning songs barely audible.

Acrid smoke still hung heavy in the morning air and startled, he remembered the fire. Turning toward the house, he could still see glowing hot spots among the smoldering ruins that had very nearly been his funeral pyre. One fire company still remained and firemen worked at controlling those areas.

As his head cleared, McCormick realized that he had to get more distance between himself and the house. Once dawn came, he would be easily spotted.

Turning from the house, he eyed a stand of reassuringly dark woods. He wondered if he could make it that far.

Trying to rise, he cried out involuntarily, then looked toward the fire company, hoping that he had not been heard above the noise of the equipment.

It seemed that every joint and muscle ached and his pulse pounded like a sledge hammer as he tried to stand. His lungs burned like fire and it seemed that he could not fully draw a breath. He wondered if they had actually been seared from the intense heat and he considered the possibility that his effort to escape the fire may have been in vain after all. His hands were red and blistered from clawing at the window, and he held them up at his chest trying to relieve the agony.

Staggering a few feet toward the woods seemed like miles and the thought occurred to him to lay down and wait for death to find him. All that kept him going was the unfinished task of somehow destroying the man who had destroyed his life and threatened Hardcastle's …..Tyson. That one desire burned at his soul and gave him the strength to go on.

Reaching the woods, he sank gratefully onto the soft fragrant pine needles that covered the ground. Leaning against a tree, he rested his head against the rough bark and studied the scene below.

The Coyote was no longer parked at the curb where he'd left it. Apparently it had been towed away in the night. That fact struck him almost like a physical blow and he shivered in the chilly, pre-dawn air. The loss of the car seemed to cement the fact that his previous life at Gull's Way was indeed over for good.

Two bodies, Jack's and Alex's would be found in the smoldering ruins. Most likely, the authorities would assume that one of the bodies had been that of Mark McCormick. Just another ex-con, come to a bad end.

With that thought, he wearily closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.

**Chapter Thirty Nine**

A fresh morning breeze whispered softly across the sun dappled lawn at Gull's Way and swept gently through the branches above. The cry of gulls could be heard beyond the cliffs edge far above the ocean. They capered and soared in the clear blue sky, riding the updrafts then spiraling down toward the ocean.

Another picture perfect California morning. It seemed an inappropriate backdrop for the task which now faced Frank Harper.

He stood before the massive oak door, wondering what he would say….what he could **POSSIBLY** say to Hardcastle. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

He had lived for the past several hours, on the glimmer of hope that McCormick had somehow escaped the fire. That hope had died when, shortly before dawn, two bodies had been pulled from the smoldering ashes.

Taking a deep breath, he gathered his courage and knocked on the door. His pulse raced as he heard the approaching familiar footsteps of the Judge.

At the moment when the door swung open and the dreaded confrontation arrived, he suddenly found himself speechless. He gazed into the Judge's blue eyes, full of cautious hope and worry, and averted his own. Rubbing the back of his neck, he tried to sooth the knot of tension lurking there.

All of the words of explanation and comfort, rehearsed endlessly in his mind, seemed to stick in his throat, yet somehow…..in that instant…Hardcastle knew.

"Frank?...what is it?" His voice was tight with concern and…..dread.

"Milt."…..Harper began hesitantly, glancing quickly at Hardcastle then lowering his eyes. " I…um….I don't know what to say."

"He's dead isn't he?" Hardcastle spoke softly, asking the question he already knew the answer to, while still hoping that **SOMEHOW**….he was wrong.

Harper continued to look at the floor for a moment longer, then met the Judge's questioning gaze. "I'm sorry, Milt."

"You're **SORRY**!" He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, and when they opened, they were filled with such pain and anguish that Frank looked away.

Hardcastle let his hand drop from the doorknob and turned to walk slowly into the house as if in a daze. "You're **sorry**." He repeated bitterly, his back still to Harper. "You were **SUPPOSED** to notify me when you found him. What the **HELL** happened!"

Harper followed him into the house, quietly closing the door behind him. The lighting in the house seemed murky and dark in contrast to the bright sunlight and for that, he was grateful. Somehow, it seemed to make things easier, almost as though he could hide in the comforting darkness. "Milt…..where do I begin?"

"You can begin by telling me why you let this happen!" He spun around to face Harper**. GOD DAMMIT,** **FRANK**, You were **supposed** to be on top of this thing!"

A look of horror flashed across Harper's face. While he had been dreading breaking this news to the Judge, he had **NOT** expected to bear the full brunt of the blame! "That's not fair, Milt! You know what kind of risks I took to help you and McCormick!"

The Judge let his eyes wander around the room, trying to compose himself enough to ask the next question. "How did it happen?" He spoke softly, almost in a whisper.

Harper, his mouth set in a tight, straight line, braced himself, then sighed. "I had two of my men doing surveillance on another suspect in this case when…McCormick apparently showed up. The detectives followed them to a house on Dexter Street where an argument took place. The detectives heard shots being fired and they used teargas. Something went wrong and the building caught fire"…he paused and swallowed nervously, dreading the next words. "By the time I got there, it was burning…..it um….it burned to the ground."

"Aw **CHRIST**, FRANK!" Hardcastle's voice shook with emotion, "Why didn't you try to get him out of there!"

"**Don't** you think I would have done something if I **could**! I **kn****ow** how much McCormick meant to you!" Harper's tone conveyed the hurt he felt at the unjust accusations. "Mark was a friend of mine too!" He broke off abruptly, unable for the moment to continue. "Milt…..there was **NOTHING** I could do. By the time I got there, the building was fully engulfed. It went up like a tinderbox.

Lowering his voice, he continued. "The presumption is that they were probably both dead by the time the fire started."

Without another word, Hardcastle turned and slowly walked to his desk. With a heavy sigh, he lowered himself into his chair as though he had no strength left.

It seemed to Harper as though the Judge had aged ten years right before his eyes.

"Are you **SURE** it was McCormick?" Hardcastle asked, still trying desperately to hang onto a thread of hope. " I mean…**YOU** didn't see him did you?"

"The description matched and….I'm afraid the Coyote was parked in front of the house." Shoving his hands in his pockets, Harper gazed at the floor, hating himself more with each word. "The autopsy report will be in sometime tomorrow."

The Judge said nothing, his expression now unreadable. He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window into the garden.

Harper studied him closely, wondering at the turmoil that must now be going on behind the emotionless mask. In the stark lighting by the window, the lines and shadows on Hardcastle's face seemed deeper, and blue eyes, once sparkling with life, seemed cold and distant.

"You okay?" Harper asked gently.

"Get out, Frank" The Judge responded flatly, never taking his eyes off of the window.

Horrified, Harper moved closer to the desk. "You don't mean that do you Milt?"  
His tone registered both surprise and hurt. "You sure you don't need some company…..someone to talk to?"

"**NO**!" Hardcastle now turned from the window and met Harper's eyes. " I don't need **you** here to hold my hand… I'd like you to leave."

Harper dropped his gaze and turned toward the door to leave. He nearly reached it when he was stopped in his tracks.

"Frank." Hardcastle's voice was calm and level. A little bit too calm, Harper thought. "Where's the Coyote?"

Puzzled, Harper turned to face his friend. "It's at the impound until after the investigation then…."

"Bring it here!" Hardcastle interrupted sharply.

Harper raised his hands in a pleading gesture. "You **know** I can't do that Milt. You know procedure."

"You bring his car home **TODAY!**" The Judge's voice was hoarse with grief and his hands were clenched tightly in fists.

"Okay, Milt." Harper spoke calmly, troubled by his friend's current state of mind. "I'll find some way…..I promise!"

Hurriedly, the Lieutenant turned and left, allowing the door to close loudly behind him. Barely aware of his own actions, he got in the car, turned the ignition, and roared down the driveway, more shaken than he cared to admit.

He pulled to the side of the driveway just before the entrance gate, his hands shaking as he put the car in park. Running his fingers through his thinning hair, he swallowed hard and tried to get a grip on his own emotions.

The Judge obviously blamed **HIM** for McCormick's death! Pursing his lips, he angrily rolled the window down and rested his arm there. _**Dammit! It's NOT fair!**_ he thought as a bead of sweat ran down his forehead. _**"No one WOULD have…. or COULD have done more to try to help that kid! Anyone else would have taken him in as soon as those photos had been delivered!**_

Then, his mind, playing a cruel game of devil's advocate, pointed out the cold hard fact that **HAD** he been taken into custody, McCormick would, most likely, be alive today.

Gazing at the lush grounds, now in need of a new caretaker, Harper considered the effect that one young ex-con had had on Judge Milton C. Hardcastle and vice versa.

McCormick had supplied just the right spark to jump start the Judge's life at a time when retirement threatened to age him. The Judge, on the other hand, had taken a surly, defensive kid beginning a long downhill slide, and somehow pushed the right buttons. Somehow, the chemistry had been just right and the two had made it work…almost.

Sighing, Harper turned the ignition and pulled onto the P.C.H.

**Chapter Forty**

The familiar thrum of the Coyote's engine broke the stillness which seemed to have fallen over the estate since Frank Harper's visit. Hardcastle watched silently as the driver carefully backed the car off of a flat bed tow truck.

Harper had kept his word and had the car delivered before night had fallen, but now the Judge felt little solace in that victory. His irrational demand to have the Coyote delivered today had seemed, at the time, to be of the utmost importance. Perhaps he had hoped to draw some small measure of comfort from the presence of something which had meant so much to McCormick.

Instead, all he felt at the sight of the car was…..emptiness. A cold, unending emptiness which sent a chill through his very soul. The car seemed unimportant now. In fact, it seemed that nothing would ever matter again.

Raising his eyes from the Coyote, he took note for the first time of the tow truck driver, a tall lanky kid, his eyes sparkling with admiration for the car. Hardcastle's heart ached at the resemblance to McCormick.

The kid polished lovingly at the hood with a rag he'd produced from his pocket and looked to Hardcastle as if awaiting a response to some question.

"I'm sorry," the Judge said dully, "What did you say?"

"I just said….nice set of wheels." The kid answered haltingly, as if seeing from the Judge's expression that he was not in any frame of mind for small talk.

"Well, you have a good night." The kid tipped his baseball cap and slid behind the wheel of the truck not waiting for, and not receiving a reply.

Hardcastle had already turned his attention back to the Coyote, never even hearing the truck drive off.

Slowly, he walked around the car, sadly noting the sorry condition it was presently in. Paint that usually gleamed was now covered with dirt and grime. A long crease marred the driver's side and several smaller dings were also evident. The car that Mark had so lovingly cared for.….now looked as old and shabby as he felt. "_**What the hell went wrong, Kid**_?" He asked himself for the thousandth time.

How long he stood gazing at the car, deep in thought he was unsure, but he noticed that the sun was setting, and the light was beginning to fade. Sighing heavily, he turned his back on the car, and walked slowly into the house closing the door behind him.

Once more, he was struck by the oppressive stillness. It seemed to close in on him, threatening to suffocate him.

Trying to shake the feeling, he turned on the T.V. and got a cup of hot coffee. Although McCormick had not lived in the main house, everything he saw and touched brought the kid to mind. "**Why**? He thought to himself once again. "_**Why the hell did this have to happen**_?" His hand shook visibly at the thought and he had to fight to steady it.

Sitting down in front of the T.V., coffee in hand, he tried to concentrate on the newscaster but his mind continued to dwell on unpleasant thoughts.

As the evening slowly ticked away, the events of the past weeks were replayed in his mind like an endless loop. Images, presented in crystal clarity, came unbidden into his thoughts. The confrontations, the lies…the behavior so un-like the good natured McCormick he thought he'd known so well.

Then….memories of happier times. Competitive but friendly games of basketball. Arguments that weren't **REALLY** what they'd seemed….just verbal sparring as a friendship had grown. The sense of self confidence and pride he'd seen develop in McCormick over the past year as the kid realized…perhaps for the first time in his life, that someone trusted and cared for him. A far cry from the defensive, arrogant facade he'd hidden behind in prison.

_**What had gone wrong? **_The troubling question plagued him endlessly_**. **_Then, a nagging sense of self blame began to dominate his thoughts. "The Kid was in **MY** custody **Dammit**! I **should** have **known** what the hell was going on in his life!"

Feeling suddenly chilled on the warm summer evening, he clutched the coffee cup in both hands, drawing the warmth into his fingers. Through the evening, he repeatedly came to the same conclusion…**Somehow**, he'd missed something. Surely there must have been **SOME** clue that things were going wrong. **WHY** hadn't he seen it? "_**Hell, the Kid would have been better off it I'd have left him in prison!"**_ He thought bitterly.

Setting the coffee mug down, he made his way to bed. As he drifted off to sleep, one last thought echoed endlessly. Somehow….he'd let McCormick down.

**Chapter Forty One**

_/FIRE!...a blistering, white hot column flared up in front of the Judge, blocking his escape. Shielding his face from the intense heat and blinding light, he spun around looking for an alternate route. Through the shimmering heat, he could see and endless maze of hallways, each one a road to Hell as flames raced along the floorboards and up the walls._

_He was trapped! With no other alternative, he retreated ahead of the wall of flame until he could retreat no further. In utter terror, Hardcastle crouched against the wall watching the fire race toward him._

_As the first tendril of flame made contact with his clothing, his agonized screams were swallowed by the roar of the inferno, which now resembled nothing less than the scream of a jet engine….then….silence….dead, numbing silence and…darkness._

_As his eyes became adjusted, he realized with complete and utter amazement, that he had somehow escaped certain death. The flames were now gone and in their place was an unrelenting darkness. Wall, blackened and peeling, tattered shreds of wallpaper, still clinging in places. Floors and ceilings blistered and charred._

_Broken glass crunched underfoot as the Judge moved cautiously through the house. Water dripped from overhead beams now exposed where plaster had fallen. It ran down the walls in places, pooling on the floor amid charred debris. _

_A smoky haze permeated the entire area, and the odor nauseated Hardcastle, threatening to make him sick. Hot spots throughout the house sizzled and hissed as droplets of water made contact, and steam rose in those areas, creating a ghostly mist. _

_A feeling of utter terror began to build in Hardcastle. Desperately, he moved down a hallway chosen at random, searching for an exit. Each hallway looked the same as the last, blackened and charred and it seemed as though he were running through a maze._

_The smoke filled air caught in his throat as he fought to draw breath. Running now , he came to a door at the end of a long hallway. Slowly, he turned the knob and entered the room, a feeling of dread reaching into the depths of his soul._

_In this room, the fire still smoldered, glowing embers and smoking debris hissing eerily in the darkness._

_As he turned to leave, a movement to his left caught his eye. Squinting in the smoke filled air, he strained to see what had caught his attention. What he saw was a scene straight out of the depths of Hell!_

_A figure crouched pitifully in the corner. Hideously burned yet somehow still living. _

_Hardcastle's pulse raced and cold sweat stood out on his forehead. More than anything, he wished to flee from the nightmarish sight before him, but he was unable to move, paralyzed by fear._

_As the stood watching, the pitiful figure, burned beyond recognition, moaned softly and slowly turned toward the Judge. Pathetically, it reached out to Hardcastle as though pleading for help the Judge could not give._

_In that moment, when Hardcastle gazed with horror into unmistakable blue eyes, now filled with agony, he felt as though he'd been stabbed in the heart. The pathetic remnant of humanity before him was McCormick!/_

"_**NO! " **_The__strangled__cry that escaped his throat sounded distinctly inhuman to his own ears.

In total darkness, he sat bolt upright in his bed. His ragged breathing seemed amplified in the darkness and his pulse pounded like a jack hammer in his ears. Reaching suddenly for the lamp by his bed he knocked it off of the table. As he found it and fumbled for the switch, he squinted painfully in the bright light.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat there trying to rein in the fear that still threatened to run away with him. A cold sweat drenched his entire body and his night clothes clung damply to him.

Glancing at the clock, he was amazed to see that only an hour and a half had passed since he'd finally dragged himself to bed. Gradually, his breathing slowed and his heart quit racing.

Taking a deep breath, Hardcastle tried to block the hideous images of the dream from his mind. In an odd way, he found some comfort in the fact that McCormick was gone and could no longer suffer the kind of agony he'd dreamt of.

Wearily, Hardcastle got up, moved to the window and opened it. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains and he took a deep breath. Overhead, just a few stars remained twinkling in the pre-dawn heavens. Just a hint of light was now visible and with the dawn would come another day full of memories and….regrets.

**Chapter Forty Two**

Moaning softly, McCormick stirred and opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the morning sun glaring through windows nearly opaque with dirt and grime. With a start, he sat up, struggling to remember where he was. Immediately he regretted the sudden movement as his head throbbed painfully.

Swinging his legs over the side of the cot, he cradled his head in his hands, waiting for the pain to abate. As it did and his thoughts cleared somewhat, he slowly began to remember…..the cabin…how long had he been here?...one day?...two? He couldn't remember! The days seemed to blend together in a blur…..

Disjointed memories of the night of the fire…Somehow….he'd managed to walk some distance from the fire. It had seemed like miles, but most likely had been just a short distance.

He'd hotwired a car that night, it seemed a lifetime ago, and had somehow driven here to the cabin. McCormick wondered how he'd even managed to remember the way. He'd only been here once before on a fishing trip with Hardcastle.

Standing shakily, he made his way to the window on unsteady legs. Peering cautiously through the dirty glass, he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the overgrown surroundings.

Obviously no one had used the cabin for quite awhile. It was unlikely that he would be disturbed here. Still, he made a note to pull the car further into the bushes to avoid being spotted from the air.

He wondered where the energy would come from to do even that , let alone how he would manage to get to Tyson and complete the one task left to do. At least, McCormick thought ironically, it doesn't take much effort to pull a trigger.

Tonight, under the cover of darkness, he would drive to Topanga Canyon, to the address he had once dragged out of Alex.

There, hopefully, he would find the home and main point of operations of the man who had destroyed his life. Tonight…..Tyson would die.

**Chapter Forty Three**

Frowning**, **Hardcastle surveyed the files spread across his desk. He'd been searching since early dawn for some clue as to what had happened. So far, his search had proven totally futile.

With absolutely nothing to go on except the knowledge that drugs were somehow involved, it was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. He had pulled various files on individuals known to have drug connections and was randomly scanning them, looking for anything that might ring a bell.

Reaching for his cup of coffee, he cursed loudly as he bumped a pile of folders off of the edge of his desk. As they cascaded to the floor, he sighed and leaned back in his chair feeling totally frustrated.

Gazing around the study, at the abandoned stacks of papers and folders, he realized with a sinking heart that he may never know who was responsible for McCormick's death. He didn't know if he could live with that.

Startled by a knock at the door, Hardcastle glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was already early afternoon. He'd been at this frustrating task for hours making no progress at all.

Scooping the fallen folders off of the floor, he tossed them casually onto the desk feeling totally hopeless and headed for the door.

Seeing Frank Harper through the window, he was struck with dread at the thought of hearing the results of the autopsy report the Lieutenant held in his hand. The cumulative stress of the past weeks combined with the hideous events of the last several days had taken their toll on the Judge. He had reached the saturation point and felt barely able to cope with the situation any longer.

As he opened the door and faced Harper, he was overcome with a sense of guilt at the hurtful words he had spoken to his friend the previous day. Memories of those words had haunted the Judge throughout the day and he realized now that Frank had done everything humanly possible to help McCormick.

He did **not** deserve to be blamed for the kid's death. Perhaps, Hardcastle thought ironically, it was just too painful to place the blame where it **really** belonged…on himself.

"Frank"…Hardcastle began hesitantly, "I owe you an apology."

"Milt!" Harper cut him off short, "That doesn't matter now!" Holding up the folder containing the autopsy report, he paused, not knowing where to begin.

"The HELL it **doesn't** matter!" The Judge answered gruffly, "I treated you pretty damn shabby and there was **NO** excuse for that!"

"**MILT**!" Harper responded more forcefully, "It **DOESN'T** matter! I've got something important to show you, so are you gonna invite me in or what?"

Hesitantly, Hardcastle stepped aside and Frank pushed past him into the house.

Following him to the study, he watched as Harper opened the folder and spread the papers on his desk. "Take a look at these."

Puzzled, Hardcastle glanced at Harper, searching for an explanation, then turned his attention to the papers before him.

With a knot forming in his stomach, he studied the report expecting to see McCormick's name. Instead, he found two other names, neither of which rang a bell.

For a brief moment, the full impact of this did not register. Laying the papers down, he raised his eyes to meet Harpers.

"Not quite what we were expecting is it Milt?" Harper asked, a broad smile spreading across his features.

"I don't get it. Are you telling me now that McCormick **wasn't** there that night?" Hardcastle's voice registered the faint glimmer of hope he was almost afraid to acknowledge.

"Oh, he was **there** alright, the two detectives there positively IDed him from photographs they were shown. Only, somehow, he must have escaped before the fire!" Harper shook his head in disbelief, still at a total loss to explain this most recent development.

"Could there be a third body they haven't found yet?" Hardcastle asked hesitantly, almost afraid to accept the good news.

"**No**!" Frank responded confidently. "they went through the ruins with a fine tooth comb. Whatever happened to McCormick….he **didn't** die in the fire.

For a long moment, Hardcastle said nothing as he absorbed the unbelievable news. Then, as Frank watched him closely, the life came back into his eyes. "McCormick's **ALIVE**!" He said as a broad smile spread across his face. "**Son of a gun**! He got out of there somehow and he's **ALIVE**!"

"Now Milt…..don't get carried away with this thing just yet. " Harper's tone was stern as he tried to rein in his friend's emotions. "Remember, we don't know **WHAT** happened to McCormick…..only that he didn't die in the fire!"

Studying Hardcastle's face, Harper realized that he was no longer listening. The Judge was lost in thought, scanning the report once more, desperately searching for a clue.

"So where the hell do these two fit into this mess?" He wondered softly as he re-read the report before him.

"Alexander Corrigan was a cellmate of McCormick's for a very short time about a year and a half ago. " Harper answered. "My guess is that **HE'S** the link between McCormick and this whole mess. The question is, the link to **WHAT**? Did he involve Mark in something without his full knowledge of the situation?...**OR** did he make him some kind of offer he couldn't pass up?"

Totally ignoring the latter scenario, Hardcastle tapped his finger at the other name on the page before him. "What do we have on this one?"

"Jack Caputo's got a rap sheet that reads like the Encyclopedia Britannica, every crime you can imagine from A to Z, including M for murder. Only problem is,…. we could never get anything to stick, at least not anything major.

"Jack Caputo" The Judge spoke softly, deep in thought. "Why does that name ring a bell? Who does he work with?"

"That's where this thing starts to get real interesting." Harper began "We fed Jack Caputo and Alexander Corrigan's names into the computer and after quite a bit of cross referencing, we came up with a common denominator. The two of them were both known associates of Lloyd Tyson!"

"Oh ,that's just **GREAT**!" Hardcastle exclaimed. "This thing just gets better and better!"

"I figured Tyson's name would get a rise out of you being that you and him were never exactly bosom buddies." Harper said grimly.

"Yeah, you could say that." Hardcastle said tossing the autopsy report onto the desk. "Why the hell didn't I put two and two together and think about Tyson in the first place? Six years ago, he and a cousin, Ray Swanton, came before me on drug trafficking charges. Tyson, slipped through the cracks and got off scot free because the arresting officer made a mistake filing his report. SWANTON on the other hand, was a good clean bust. We nailed him to the wall and hung a twenty year to life sentence on him…only he never got to serve much time. He died after a fight in the yard with another prisoner."

"I remember now." Harper squinted his eyes trying to bring the past event into clear focus. "Tyson blamed you for his cousin's death. Word on the street was that he had a contract out on you but nothing ever came of it.

"Yeah, well guys like Tyson seem to have infinite patience when it comes to revenge." Hardcastle answered sarcastically. "Besides, he was busy building one of the largest drug empires this state has ever seen, **WHICH** is another reason why he'd like **ME** out of the way. Some of the cases McCormick and I have worked on in the past year have hit a little too close to some of his operations. **CHRIST**! Why the **hell** didn't I think of Tyson sooner!" Hardcastle pounded a fist on the desk.

"No offense, Milt," Harper said firmly, "but Tyson **AND** probably a thousand other guys **JUST** like him don't like you. Judges aren't especially popular among the criminal element, or haven't you ever noticed?"

"This whole thing should have been as plain as day to me! The style fits Tyson like a glove!" Hardcastle continued to berate himself for what he perceived as the ultimate failure, obviously not even listening to Harper. "Tyson has nasty habit of using blackmail to get people to do his dirty work for him. Then, once he gets what he wants, ….they do a disappearing act so there are no untidy loose ends for him to worry about."

Pursing his lips, Harper mentally reviewed the recent events and sighed. " That **would** seem to explain the pictures that mysteriously showed up at the station."

"**AND**," Hardcastle added, " The cocaine planted in the gatehouse, **AND** the goons who tried to take McCormick out of here, obviously against his will the night of the party."

Frowning, Harper considered Hardcastle's scenario for several moments. " I don't know Milt, it all seems to fit…..but what about the coke they planted in the main house? Where does that fit in?"

"I don't know Frank, maybe he planned to make it look like I was supplementing my income with drug sales, Who knows? Maybe the guy's gone off the deep end. Hate does strange things to people!" Hardcastle's voice rose in frustration. " I just _**know**_ in my heart that we're on the right track here!"

"Okay Milt. What if you _**ARE**_ right? I admit I don't have any better theories right now!" Harper stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. "So where do we go from here? If you're right, and **IF** Tyson **IS** the key to this whole thing, and **IF** McCormick **IS** still alive….then we have to find him fast. We **HAVE** to find him before Tyson does so we're right back to square one on this thing!"

"Alright, I admit there **ARE** a lot of ifs Frank." Hardcastle agreed. "**AND** we don't know where McCormick is, _**BUT**_ I'm pretty sure we **CAN** find Tyson. He's too arrogant to go into hiding over this thing. So what I want you to do is dig up SOMETHING we can use to take Tyson into custody for awhile till we can find McCormick."

"Oh , is **THAT** all?" Harper answered sarcastically. "Gee Milt, for awhile you had me worried there. I thought you might ask for something difficult!"

Smiling, Hardcastle ushered his friend toward the door. " I knew I could count on you, Frank!"

"**Aw**, Milt!" Harper protested as he neared the door. " Do you have _**any**_ idea how hard it's gonna be to come up with a plausible excuse to book Tyson, AND bring him in AND be able to hold onto him for any length of time?"

"Be creative Frank." Hardcastle opened the door and stood aside. " You just book him, I'll see about making sure he stays put." Even as he spoke, Hardcastle wondered how he could accomplish this.

As Harper made his way to the car, he considered the task ahead of him. Milt was right, This whole mess just got better and better!

**Chapter Forty Four**

Shortly after sunset, the Lieutenant and the Judge, arrest warrant in hand, made their way along winding canyon roads toward Tyson's estate. With any luck at all, he WOULD be there and they would take him into custody. A black and white unit followed them at a discreet distance, a concession to Frank's intuition, which told him that a back up unit might be needed.

Somehow, he couldn't quite picture Lloyd Tyson quietly submitting to arrest on the flimsy charges he'd managed to come up with. Visions of false arrest and harassment lawsuits leapt unbidden into his thoughts.

Sighing, he glanced at Hardcastle, who stared straight ahead as if deep in thought, his face slightly illuminated by the dim light cast by the dashboard instrument panel. Harper could not help but wonder what he was thinking about now.

"Milt, I guess I don't have to tell you how shaky this warrant is." Harper handed the papers to Hardcastle as if asking for approval.

"I **KNOW** that." Hardcastle sounded weary. "The guy will probably beat us home, but at this point, I'll settle for the chance to question him on our turf…..maybe **SOMETHING** will turn up."

Silent for a few minutes, the Judge scanned the arrest papers again. "How **DID** you manage to come up with this so fast?"

"Well, uh…actually Milt, the department's been working on this for awhile." Frank began nervously. "When that pilot, Skylor Murphy turned up dead, we suspected that Tyson could be involved. The M.O. Matched Tyson's style exactly. Some dumb chump takes the fall while he gets away clean. We KNEW that that kid didn't come by that plane legit. **SOMEBODY** obviously set him up in business. After quite a bit of research, we traced the plane to an obscure little business owned by….you guessed it, Lloyd Tyson and associates. I guess even the big guys get sloppy now and again.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about this sooner?" Hardcastle exploded, looking incredulously at Harper.

Turning his attention briefly from the road ahead, Harper glared angrily at the Judge. "**Dammit**, Milt! It's not my job to inform you of every move we make! Then feeling guilty at the outburst, he softened "Anyway, there just wasn't enough to go on. **HELL** there **STILL** isn't enough to go on! The Captain would have my head if he knew we were on our way to arrest Lloyd Tyson on **THESE** charges!

"I'm sorry, Frank." Hardcastle glanced away feeling guilty himself. " I KNOW what you've done for me and McCormick and I want you to know how much I appreciate your support. It's just this thing's got me all torn up."

"Milt, you don't have to apologize to me. I know how you feel." Harper gripped the wheel tighter in preparation for what he wanted to say next. "I just hope that by some miracle, something turns up when we talk to Tyson…..cause…if it don't…..I think we might have to accept the fact that Mark's gone…and we may never find out what really happened."

Sighing heavily, Hardcastle gazed out the window at the scenery passing in the darkness. " As much as I hate to agree with you, Frank….I think you're right, and it kills me."

**Chapter Forty Five**

Pulling the car off of the road, McCormick cut the engine, knowing he dare not drive any closer for fear of being heard.

Getting out amid a cloud of blue exhaust, he squinted his eyes against the darkness and gazed intently down the long driveway at the home of Lloyd Tyson. His heart seemed to skip a beat as he thought about what he must do this evening.

Pulling the recently acquired gun from his pocket, he studied the weapon momentarily. The barrel of the antiquated revolver gleamed dully in the pale moonlight. From the looks of the gun, it might just as easily blow up in his face as be of any service, but at this point he certainly could not afford to be choosy. He'd picked up the gun only an hour earlier from yet another acquaintance from prison who just a few weeks ago, he wouldn't have been caught dead associating with. Now…it no longer mattered.

As he stood looking at the weapon, Mark found himself wondering whether he would be able to use it. The closer he came to confronting Tyson, the more uncertain he became of his exact intentions.

When he finally came face to face with the man who'd ruined his life, would he?...**COULD** he?...look a man in the eye and blow him away? Even a man like Tyson? McCormick suppressed a shudder at the thought. " **No**!...There **HAS** to be some other way." He thought as he turned his attention once more toward the house. Maybe he could still force Tyson to turn over anything he had that would implicate Hardcastle.

Mark swayed slightly in the darkness, momentarily dizzy. **WHY** couldn't he think straight? Leaning against a tree to steady himself, he tried to concentrate as the whole world seemed to spin around him and he felt sick to his stomach.

The events of the past weeks along with his narrow escape from death in the fire had taken their toll on McCormick. He was physically and mentally exhausted. The pain from the burns on his hands was excruciating and more and more he seemed unable to focus his thoughts.

Closing his eyes, McCormick waited for several minutes until the nausea had passed and hi s head cleared slightly.

Feeling momentarily better, he made his way slowly toward the house. As if in a dream, each footstep seemed to take every ounce of his energy and the house seemed to be at the end of a very long tunnel.

Finally nearing the door, he scanned the area nervously, searching for any sign of guards, either human or canine. Seeing none, he was relieved yet puzzled. Men like Tyson were usually given to paranoid tendencies and unlikely to allow themselves to be unguarded or careless…unless…..could it be some kind of trap?" He wondered, unable to avoid harboring some paranoid tendencies of his own. "**No**! He **COULDN'T** know!" McCormick thought, swaying slightly, dizzy once more.

"Hang on just a little longer!" He told himself as he tried to keep a clear head.

Studying the house, he noticed with satisfaction that the only lighted areas were in the right wing, far away from the front door. If Tyson was indeed home he would not be hard to locate.

Wincing from the pain, he tightened his grip on the gun, and fumbled in his pocket for the lock pick kit he'd brought. Quietly working the lock, McCormick dreaded the moment when an alarm would sound.

Taking a deep breath and holding it, he turned the knob and flinching involuntarily, pushed the door open a crack…and…..nothing. No earsplitting alarm, no shouting….no running feet, only dead silence.

Slowly, McCormick exhaled, hardly daring to believe his good fortune. Almost **TOO** good, **TOO** easy. Stealthily, he entered the house, eyes darting, searching for the guards he expected to appear at any moment. Making his way through the darkened foyer, McCormick peered down a long corridor to the right. Far at the end, light spilled into the darkness from a partially opened door. Treading silently along the plushly carpeted hallway, he could hear the sound of papers shuffling, emanating from the room ahead.

As he neared the doorway, McCormick's heart threatened to explode within his chest and a bead of sweat rolled annoyingly down the side of his face.

"Why the hell is it so hot in here?" He wondered as he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt.

The gun felt cold and slippery in his hand and he loosened and tightened his fingers around it to get a secure grip.

Finally reaching the door, McCormick cautiously peered inside and a wave of intense hatred washed over him as he recognized the man who'd stolen his life.

Lloyd Tyson, big as life, sat a mere twenty feet from McCormick, head bowed slightly, studying some paperwork on the desk before him. Dressed impeccably in a pale grey suit, which mirrored those ever so pale eyes, McCormick was reminded of an ice sculpture he'd once seen at a banquet he'd attended with the Judge.

Mesmerized by the sight, he lingered in the shadows, just outside of the circle of light spilling from the room. Tyson, unaware of the intruder, calmly leafed through his paperwork blissfully ignorant of the fact that his life was about to change forever.

As Mark watched, he was flooded with a variety of thoughts and emotions, once again unfocussed and unsure. He felt like hell, dizzy and weak, and hoped with all his heart he could hang on just a few minutes longer. Just long enough to complete the job before him.

Glancing down at the gun, he adjusted his grip for the thousandth time, wincing at the pain. Casually, he noticed that the burns were bleeding again.

Within the room, Tyson suddenly looked up form his desk, as if he sensed McCormick's presence. "Desmond, is that you?" He called and waited for a reply which never came.

Although he had heard nothing, Lloyd Tyson was struck with the feeling that he was being watched and felt the hair prickle at the back of his neck.

Even though he was supremely confident and self assured, Tyson was also rarely alone and was usually accompanied by one or two burly, human watchdogs. On this rare occasion, the staff had been given the evening off due to various reasons, and he'd sent his personal bodyguard, Desmond, to town on an errand. The thought now occurred to him that he'd become a bit **TOO** dependant on others, and the thought sickened him.

Annoyed at his uncharacteristic nervousness, Tyson turned his attention back to the paperwork before him. Now unavoidably tuned in to the oppressive silence, hi s heart jumped as he heard the unmistakable sound of movement just outside the door of the office. Glancing quickly at the control panel of the alarm system, he cursed himself when he saw that he'd neglected to turn the alarm on!

Keeping his eyes on the doorway, he reached for the gun he kept in the right hand drawer of his desk.

"Don't do it." McCormick said as he stepped into view from the shadows. Despite the anger and hatred he felt, his tone was cold and emotionless. Almost mechanical, as though he were just going through the motions, too weary to muster up any **REAL** anger.

Tyson froze as he started to open the drawer and, though he quickly masked it, an expression of surprise and fear flashed across his face. McCormick took great pleasure at the sight of it.

"Well, Mr. McCormick. I can **QUITE** honestly say that **you** are the last person on earth I expected to see!" Tyson's voice was calm once more, totally emotionless.

"Yeah, I bet I am." McCormick responded, feeling annoyed that Tyson could so quickly cover his fear. "Your buddy Jack wasn't so lucky though."

"Don't feel bad about him, McCormick. His days were numbered anyway. I can't afford to have men like him in my organization. Jack **WAS** a bit of a loose canon wasn't he." To McCormick's amazement, Lloyd Tyson smiled broadly. "I don't like loose ends, and he **OBVIOUSLY** failed in his mission didn't he."

Mark stared at Tyson with the same kind of horrid fascination one has when studying a snake. Even the years spent in prison associating with all manner of human trash had not prepared him for Lloyd Tyson.

"How many other 'loose ends' like Jack have died to give you all this?" McCormick glanced around the room at the lavish furnishings. Tyson sat calmly behind a massive desk of rich mahogany, the surface polished to a mirror finish. Beneath their feet, ornate Persian rugs covered hardwood flooring.

Tyson smiled slightly, never taking his eyes off of McCormick. "What can I say, Mr. McCormick? I'm a business man. Sometimes sacrifices must be made."

"Sacrifices." McCormick repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. "Like what you're planning to do to Hardcastle?"

"Exactly." Tyson smiled again, apparently fearless of the gun presently pointed directly at him. "Oh, don't look so disgusted, McCormick, it's the law of the jungle. The weak must die so that the strong may prosper. Open your eyes! Look at the world around you! It happens all the way to the top levels of our government, and don't think that it doesn't ."

"**Shut up**!" McCormick cut him off sharply. " I didn't come to hear your philosophy on life you piece of **SHIT**!"

Undaunted, Tyson locked his fingers together on the desk before him and leaned back slightly in his chair. "N**o**…I don' t suppose you did. What I'm wondering though is **WHY** exactly **ARE** you here? Do you mean to KILL me?" Lowering his gaze to the gun in McCormick's bleeding hand he noticed that it was shaking slightly. "No….. I don't think so, or I'd be dead already, and we wouldn't be having this wonderful little dialogue, so why **ARE** you here?"

"I'm here because you're gonna do things **MY** way now!"McCormick raised the gun to emphasize the statement. "You're gonna give me **EVERYTHING** you've got on Hardcastle or I **WILL** kill you!"

"Then I'm afraid you've wasted a trip here, Mr. McCormick, because I'm not going to give you anything." Tyson's voice was calm and a smile curled at his lips.

"I ought to **blow** your head off **right** now!" McCormick's tone was furious and he toyed dangerously with the trigger.

"Oh, you'd better think again before you do that, McCormick!" Tyson's eyes were like ice as they bore straight through Mark. "Because if you do, the whole process of Judge Hardcastle's destruction will be put in motion. You see, I had everything set up that way as a little insurance policy. If I die…I still have the satisfaction of knowing that vengeance **WILL** be served. Of course….if I remain alive?...Well, there's always the slim chance that I might leave your friend alone."

Confusion clouded McCormick's expression. It seemed as thought here would be no end to the nightmare he was living. He noticed suddenly that the room was incredibly, unbearably warm and panic clutched at his very soul as he remembered images of the fire that had very nearly claimed his life. Eyes wide with fright, he tried to calm himself with the assurance that THIS was another time….another place. Ironically, the very man who'd haunted his dreams since the beginning of this ordeal, now served to ease his fears. Lloyd Tyson, cool and stoic, gazed at him from across the room as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Though his looks conveyed confidence, Tyson began to feel a hint of fear as he studied the mad man before him. Mentally ticking off the minutes, he wondered how soon Desmond would return and what would he find when he arrived? Would he be in time, or would this pathetic nobody be the end of him?

Tyson cursed Jack for his dismal failure of the last duty assigned him. He wished that Jack were still alive so he could personally supervise his punishment for this ultimate betrayal. The death Jack had suffered was a kind one compared to what **he** would have delivered.

Studying McCormick, Tyson took some comfort in his condition. The kid looked to be about half dead and **THAT** pleased him greatly. He had always taken great pleasure in toying with people's lives, it somehow made him feel all the more powerful. **THIS** time though, he had played the game too long! Trusting Jack to dispose of McCormick had come back to haunt him. How ironic that this, the most insignificant of opponent, whom he'd never really considered a threat, might very well be his undoing

As he watched McCormick, he could see that the kid was having a great deal of difficulty concentrating. He swayed unsteadily on his feet, and confusion was etched upon his features. Seeing his chance, Tyson reached, ever so slowly toward the drawer which contained a loaded pistol. Not taking his eyes off of McCormick, Tyson watched for any indication that he'd noticed the movement.

He'd nearly reached the drawer when McCormick's eyes cleared and anger took the place of confusion. A gunshot, unbelievably loud in the confines of the room, shattered the silence as McCormick squeezed off a round. "**DON'T** do it!" he warned Tyson in a voice that sent a chill up the older man's spine. Tyson froze, his hand in mid air just short of the drawer and for the first time, terror stabbed at his heart!

**Chapter** **Forty** **Six**

The drive to Lloyd Tyson's estate had been for the most part, a silent, tense one with Frank Harper brooding about the repercussions of a contrived arrest warrant, and the Judge brooding about the futility of the whole thing. Pulling into the driveway, Harper noted with some surprise that the entry gate was open, with no security measures in evidence and he glanced in the rearview mirror, reassured by the black and white unit following close behind.

Years of experience had taught him that you could never be too cautious when dealing with a man the likes of Lloyd Tyson. Parking the car near the front of the house, he turned to his friend. "Well, I guess this is it, Milt."

Wordlessly, Hardcastle opened the door and the two men proceeded to the house followed by the two patrolmen. As they neared the house, a warning bell went off in Harper's head as he noticed the front door standing wide open.

He began to get a very bad feeling about the whole atmosphere of the place and glancing at the Judge, he could see that he felt it too.

Standing at the threshold of the open door, they peered cautiously into the darkness, unsure for the moment how to proceed. Hardcastle shrugged and looked to the Lieutenant for options when a gunshot from within the house shattered the silence.

Harper instantly motioned to the uniformed officers who had drawn their weapons and proceeded into the house. Within seconds, the armed officers were following the same route McCormick had traveled a short time earlier. They made their way down the long corridor toward the lighted office, followed by the Lieutenant and the Judge.

As they reached it, the two officers took a defensive stance, one on either side of the doorway to assess the situation. When Hardcastle and Harper caught up with the officers, the Judge caught a quick glimpse inside of the office and his heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened in amazement and he actually felt light headed at what he saw. McCormick…..very much alive, stood just ten feet away with a gun at Lloyd Tyson's face!

"**Hold your fire**!" Harper instructed the two officers in an urgent but hushed tone.

Hardcastle started toward the door but was halted by Harper's hand on his arm. "Hold it Milt!' he whispered tensely. "We don't want to rush in there and start a war. Take it slowly."

At that moment, apparently hearing the commotion, McCormick turned his attention slightly to the hallway, still holding the gun on Tyson. "Who's out there?" he shouted hoarsely. "Show yourself!"

Pushing past Harper, who tried to hold him back, Hardcastle stepped out of the shadows and entered the room. "It's me, McCormick, just take it easy." The judge tried, with quite a bit of effort to keep his voice calm and level, but it wanted to shake with the emotion he felt.

His heart ached as he took in McCormick's condition. The kid looked like hell, thin, unkempt and unsteady on his feet. His eyes were wide with uncertainty and fear and to the Judge's horror, it seemed that the kid did not even seem to recognize him! McCormick's eyes darted back and forth between the Judge and Tyson and the gun shook visibly in his hand.

As he gazed at the Judge, the confusion in his eyes slowly cleared to be replaced by a look of unparalleled sadness. "Go away, Judge." He pleaded quietly. "Let me take care of this my way."

"No, McCormick." The Judge shook his head and implored softly, "This isn't **YOUR** way and you know it." Slowly, the judge moved toward McCormick and Tyson. "Give me the gun and we'll sort this out the **LEGAL** way."

The judge's movement toward McCormick seemed to rattle the younger man and he raised the gun at Tyson once more as if to fire. "**NO**!" He tightened his grip on the weapon. "There **IS** no other way!" Tyson, raised his hands in a pleading, submissive gesture and McCormick took great pleasure in the stark terror he saw in the pale eyes.

As if from a great distance, the judge's voice broke his concentration once more. "**Don't** do it, Kid…..he's not worth it." Hardcastle studied McCormick for any sign that his pleas were registering. "Give me the gun, McCormick. Let me help you….we'll nail him… together….the two of us." Hardcastle sensed Harper and the officers behind him and knew that **ANYTHING** could happen in such a volatile situation. He prayed that Harper would give him enough time to get control.

McCormick toyed dangerously with the trigger as he stared into the terrified eyes of the man he'd come to despise. He wanted with all his heart to dispatch this hideous excuse for a human being to whatever hell awaited him. For if ever a man deserved to die, it was Lloyd Tyson, a man who'd already destroyed the lives of countless people and now meant to destroy the life of the one man who meant something to Mark McCormick. Yet strangely…..he found he was having difficulty making himself pull the trigger.

"**McCormick**!" The Judge's tone was more forceful now with just a hint of desperation detectible. "**Don't** do it. **DON'T** destroy your life like this!"

"No, Judge! It's too late!" McCormick said cutting him off. "I've ruined **EVERYTHING**! I'm in too deep and I'm **NOT** going back to jail!"

"**NO**!" The judge argued desperately. "**Listen** to me kid! We can still straighten this out. We know about his whole scheme. You **DON'T** have to do this!"

For the first time, McCormick seemed to relax a little as he considered the Judge's last statement. Hardcastle held his breath as the kid lowered his gun ever so slightly and glanced his way for reassurance.

Then, to his absolute horror, Tyson made his move and lunged at McCormick catching him totally off guard!

Hardcastle moved toward the two men but had barely taken a step when it was already too late. McCormick , in his weakened condition, was not up to a physical confrontation and in a flash, Tyson had gained control of the gun.

"**Get BACK!"** He screamed at Hardcastle, who froze on the spot.

Roughly, Tyson jerked McCormick off of his feet and onto his knees and placed the muzzle of the gun at his temple. "How'd you like to watch me blow his brains out right here, Judge?" He smiled cruelly at Hardcastle.

"You do and I **swear** to God you won't leave this room alive!" The words stuck in his throat and the Judge hated himself for allowing Tyson to see his agony.

"**DON'T** threaten me, Hardcastle!" He hissed, "I hold all the cards thanks to your young friend here! He emphasized the point by jerking McCormick's head back roughly by the hair.

McCormick, the gun pressed tightly against his temple, cried out involuntarily from the pain and the Judge winced at the terror he saw in the eyes of his friend.

The kid obviously expected to die at any second. The Judge had never felt more helpless than he did at this minute.

"Drop the gun **NOW**!" Tyson shouted an order past Hardcastle. The Judge, glancing over his shoulder, saw Harper and **ONE** patrolman, weapon drawn.

A surge of hope flowed through the Judge as he realized that the other officer must still be in the darkened hallway! Turning his attention once more to Tyson, his hopes faded as he also realized that the officer would have very little chance of a clear shot a long as McCormick was a hostage.

"Are you all **DEAF**?" Tyson asked sarcastically, "I said, **DROP** the gun!"

"Do it." Harper instructed the officer quietly.

Without a word, the officer complied and the gun clattered to the floor.

"Okay Tyson, you got your way. Now what do you want?" Hardcastle asked, stalling for time.

Tyson lowered the gun slightly, still holding McCormick by the hair. "What do I want?"…He asked himself aloud. "Do I ask for ransom money and free passage out of here?"…he paused as if considering. "NO…..I don't think that would help me. You'll only put a freeze on all of my businesses and assets as soon as I'm gone…I'll be a ruined man on the run!"

Making direct eye contact with Hardcastle, Tyson paused for a minute and smiled. "**Shame** on you Judge! You should **know** better than to back someone into a corner like this….it tends to make a man desperate…..it **TENDS** to make a man think of revenge, and do you know what the ultimate **REVENGE** would be?"

"**Tyson**, " Hardcastle tried to remain calm, "Listen to me."

"The **ULTIMATE REVENGE**, " Tyson cut him off, " Would be for me to put a bullet in his head….**RIGHT NOW,** in front of you! That way, even if I'm killed….I have the pleasure of knowing that **YOU** will have to live with that scene played over and over again in your mind. It will **haunt** you for the rest of your life!"

As he spoke, the volume of his voice rose with each word until he was screaming. Then, in a split second, he began to raise the gun once more toward McCormick's head.

In that horrifying instant, Hardcastle knew that **THIS** time, he intended to follow through on his threat!

"**NO**!" Hardcastle screamed and lunged toward Tyson as two deafening shots rang out almost simultaneously.

Time seemed horribly distorted in those last few seconds. Though the events seemed to happen with lightning speed, the Judge felt as though **HE** himself were moving in slow motion, and as he reached the two men, they collapsed on the floor in a tangled heap.

In a moment which **WOULD** indeed haunt the Judge for the rest of his life, he gazed in stunned, horrified silence at the two bodies on the blood splattered carpet at his feet.

As he rolled Tyson's body off of McCormick, he felt ill at the sight of the bullet hole in the dead man's forehead. Pushing him aside, Hardcastle gently turned McCormick onto his back, dreading what he would find.

Grief threatened to overcome him as he saw that the young man was covered with blood. Gazing into the lifeless face of his friend, he felt for a pulse.

For several long seconds, he felt nothing when, to his relief, McCormick groaned and stirred ever so slightly in his hands.

"Call an ambulance!" Harper's voice broke the silence and for the first time, Hardcastle became aware that the Lieutenant was by his side.

McCormick's eyes fluttered open and he tried feebly to sit up. Hardcastle restrained him effortlessly. "**DON'T** try to move, McCormick!" The Judge said urgently, trying in vain to keep the fear out of his voice. "You're gonna be okay….just lie still!"

Blood flowed freely from a wound in the young man's shoulder and Hardcastle removed his jacket and used it to apply direct pressure to staunch the flow.

McCormick cried out in pain and the sound was like a knife in the Judge's heart.

"**Judge**," He said anxiously while clutching at Hardcastle's arm, "I'm sorry…I'm sorry about everything." His breathing was ragged and terror filled his eyes.

Don't move kiddo ! **DON'T** try to talk!" Desperation filled his voice and glancing over his shoulder, he looked for the Lieutenant, who'd gone into the hallway. "**FRANK**! Where the **HELL** is the ambulance!"

Harper hurried back into the room and to Hardcastle's side, placing a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder. "They're **on** their way, Milt; **JUST** hang in there."

Watching McCormick's face intently, it seemed as though time were standing still, then, to the Judge's horror, McCormick's frightened blue eyes glazed over and he felt the grip on his arm weaken.

"Aw Kid!" The Judge croaked, panic tearing at his voice. "**DON'T** do this to me!...NOT NOW…**Not** after all we've been through!"

Hardcastle never heard the ambulance crew enter the room, when he was gently taken by the arm by Harper. "Come on Milt, let's let these guys do their job."

The ambulance trip to the hospital seemed to last for an eternity, and it wasn't until seven agonizing hours later that the Judge finally received word that McCormick was out of danger and expected to recover fully. ** Chapter Forty Seven**

Still sitting in the Hospital lounge some time later, Hardcastle stared straight ahead, not really seeing, but rather reflecting on the events of the past evening.

So lost in thought was he that he never heard Frank Harper enter the room until he smelled the coffee the Lieutenant was carrying. "Hey Milt, I thought you could go for something warm." He said as he offered a cup to the Judge.

"Thanks, Frank." The Judge said as he gratefully accepted the cup.

Taking a seat beside the Judge, Harper sat quietly for a moment sipping his coffee. "I heard the good news about McCormick."

"Yeah, isn't it great!" Hardcastle smiled, "The kid got **DAMN** lucky. The doctor said that, between the bullet wound, and the injuries from the fire, it was touch and go for awhile there." Taking another sip of the coffee, he sighed wearily, "He's gonna be alright, but there's some infection involved with the burns so they're gonna keep him for awhile."

"Good thing." Harper smiled, "Maybe they'll keep him out of trouble while he's in here!"

Neither man spoke for several minutes when Harper spoke in a more serious tone. "Milt…..I wanted you to know that I destroyed those pictures that were sent to me of McCormick at that airport. We got enough evidence on Tyson tonight when we searched his house to cripple his whole drug empire. There are gonna be a whole lot of unhappy people connected with Tyson when the subpoenas start flying. I don't think we have to drag Mark through a lengthy investigation after what he's been through. According to _**MY**_ report, you and he were working on a case involving Tyson and **assisted** me in bringing him down.

Hardcastle looked at Harper and a great warmth welled up within him. "Frank…..I can't tell you enough how much your friendship has meant through all of this. I don't think I could ever do enough to repay you."

Standing, Harper took the coffee cup from Hardcastle's hand and set it on the table. "You can repay me by letting me take you home so you can get some rest. Mark's out of danger and I don't think he'd want you falling on your face, so come on….let's go."

Too weary to argue the point and knowing that Harper was right, Hardcastle rose and the two men headed for the door. Harper walked alongside his friend, one hand on his shoulder.

**Chapter Forty Eight**

The sun shimmered lazily across the swimming pool as a gentle breeze danced upon the surface of the water.

McCormick relaxed in a chaise lounge near the water's edges reveling in the sheer perfection of the day.

Several weeks had passed since the nightmare with Lloyd Tyson had officially ended, yet he still had difficulty from time to time realizing that it was **REALLY** over.

Tyson still continued to haunt his dreams, though less and less frequently. In fact, day by day, he felt stronger, both physically and emotionally, although he was still not, by any means, one hundred percent.

Some of the scars from the horrible experience would most likely stay with him for the rest of his life. Most notably…the loss of Alex Corrigan. McCormick remembered Alex with great sadness, for in Alex, he saw the specter of what he himself could have become had it not been for Hardcastle.

McCormick remembered very little from the moment he was shot, until some days later in the hospital. He had a vague recollection of the ambulance ride, remembering that Hardcastle had been there, by his side. Though he had seen fear in the Judge's eyes, he had taken great comfort in his very presence.

As his thoughts turned to the Judge, worry gnawed at the corners of his mind and a frown creased his forehead.

Since his release from the hospital, things had not been the same between he and Hardcastle, and McCormick had an uneasy feeling that things might never be the same again.

Sadly, he knew that he alone must accept the responsibility for destroying their friendship, and that realization was like a dark cloud obliterating what had been a beautiful day. So deep in thought was he that he never noticed Hardcastle, walking toward him from the house.

Holding two glasses of lemonade, the Judge offered one to McCormick and lowered himself into the chair beside him. "Here kid, I thought you might like something cold."

McCormick gratefully accepted the lemonade, taking a long drink before he spoke. The cool liquid felt wonderfully refreshing going down. "Thanks, Judge." He responded quietly…almost nervously.

"Don't mention it." The Judge answered, drinking his own lemonade and gazing out past the pool to the ocean below the cliffs.

So had been most of the conversations since McCormick's return to Gull's Way. Succinct…. almost mechanical in nature, as though the two now longer possessed the ability to communicate freely and easily any more.

"_**Maybe that's how he wants it**__."_ McCormick thought as he idly watched the ice clinking in his glass. "_**Maybe….I screwed up so bad….I'm not even welcome here anymore…..maybe….he'd like to call the whole deal off."**_ The thought made him feel as though he were cut adrift, as though all of the stability that he'd come to enjoy in his life was gone and once more his future was tenuous and unsure.

"Judge?"….McCormick began hesitantly. "I've been meaning to ask you something about Tyson." Feeling unsure, he looked down at the drink in his hand, for neither of the men had spoken of the incident since the night of the shooting.

"Sure, ask away." The Judge said, taking another sip of the lemonade.

"He went to a **HELL** of a lot of trouble to suck me into this thing and set you up, just to get some kind of warped revenge. What the **HELL** did you do to him?" McCormick gave a sidelong glance at the Judge, wondering if he would resent discussing the whole mess.

To his surprise, Hardcastle smiled and met his eyes openly, with no resentment. "Not just revenge, Kiddo. It was a business decision."

McCormick's expression conveyed his confusion and the Judge explained. "Seems we were hitting a little to close to the nerve with some of the cases we've worked on since you and I became a team!"

Pausing to take another sip of lemonade, he continued. "Tyson was only the hired help. He worked for a guy named Anthony Logan who controls most of the drug trade in the state. See, Tyson was…well I guess you'd call him the head administrator. He ran most of Logan's operations for him, and he was also the guy who'd take a fall for Logan should anything go wrong."

"So he didn't like some of your little pet projects and decided it was in his best interest to get rid of us?" McCormick filled in the blanks.

"Now yer cookin'!" The Judge said with a smile, "Luckily though, Tyson had a really nasty habit of toying with people. So instead of a good old fashioned killing….he couldn't resist playing cat and mouse and **THIS** time he lost control of the situation! Once things went sour, he was as good as dead as far as Logan was concerned. Whether or not he'd died that night…he'd have **NEVER** made it to trial!"

"Anthony Logan?" McCormick's eyes widened in horror as he recognized the name. "I knew him briefly in prison! He was the most unbelievably coldblooded and brutal piece of work I've **EVER** seen. I was scared shitless of that guy! **EVERYONE** was! Leaning forward in his chair, McCormick set his empty glass down. "Two guys ended up **DEAD** because they crossed his path in there, not that anyone could pin it on Logan, but **EVERYONE** knew who was responsible. Of course Logan didn't serve much time, somehow, **HE** got released, and **NO ONE** was happier to see him go than me!"

Sighing, Hardcastle set his glass down too. "Yeah, guys like Logan are the very ones who always seem to know how to use the system to their own advantage and slip through the cracks. **THAT'S** why there **HAS** to be guys like **us** to ride shotgun on them!"

McCormick shook his head and looked away. "Not anymore, Judge. Not with me anyway." Then turning back to Hardcastle, he met his eyes with a look of sadness and regret. " I screwed up….**BIG** **TIME**. I almost cost you everything…..your reputation…even your life!"

"Everyone makes mistakes McCormick….although I must admit that **THIS** one was a beauty!" Hardcastle said rubbing his forehead as though just thinking about it was bringing on a headache.

"**Mistakes** I can live with. What I **DO** have a hard time living with is that you didn't come to me when this whole thing started.

"Judge,"…..McCormick closed his eyes, shaking his head. I **COULDN'T** come to you."

"**WHY**?" Hardcastle demanded. "Why the **hell** not? Didn't you trust me?...did you think I was gonna turn you in?...Pausing just long enough to take a breath, the Judge continued, too agitated to wait for a reply. "Did you think I was gonna just send you back inside without getting to the bottom of things?"

Neither man spoke for a tension filled moment or two, and McCormick could see that the Judge was trying to calm down and put his thoughts in order.

"**McCormick**!" the Judge began rather gruffly, then continued in a gentler tone. "McCormick…you're always cryin' the blues about respect and my not trusting you enough…..well let me tell you, Kiddo, trust works **both** ways.

McCormick bowed his head slightly, not really wanting to meet the Judge's eyes. Then, hesitantly, he raised his eyes. "I was afraid." He said quietly.

"**WHAT**?" Hardcastle asked in disbelief.

"I was **afraid**, Judge. " McCormick spoke up slightly. "I wasn't afraid of what you'd **DO** to me…..I was afraid of what you'd **THINK** of me, and most of all, I was afraid of what might happen to you **BECAUSE** of me."

Slightly taken aback, the Judge was momentarily at a loss for words. McCormick's admission was **NOT** what he'd expected.

"Well"….he sighed. "I'm glad you were concerned about me, but….you **STILL** should have come to me. I'm a big boy, McCormick! I didn't bring you here to protect me."

"Yeah, …well, I wanted to talk to you about that." McCormick said quietly.

"About what? Protecting me?" Hardcastle's tone was one of puzzlement.

"**NO**!" McCormick said , feeling frustrated that the conversation seemed to be going nowhere. " I wanted to talk to you about my staying here. I know you must be disappointed in me…..I mean….If you want to…..I mean….I'd understand if you **DON'T** want me here anymore."

"I sure as **HELL** didn't go through all that trouble to send you back inside!" Hardcastle exclaimed and looked to McCormick, waiting to meet his eyes. " I **KNOW** what you went through to try to make sure that I didn't get dragged into this thing. But next time….and I **TRULY** hope that there will **NEVER** be a next time, **DON'T** try to be a hero. We're a team remember? If I didn't want you here, you wouldn't be here. Besides that…..take a look around this place, the grass needs cut, the hedges need trimmed…..who do you think's gonna get it straightened up?" He joked and for the first time since his return from the hospital, McCormick got a glimpse of the old familiar Hardcastle he knew. Gazing into the Judge's blue eyes once more sparkling with life, he felt for the first time that things were truly back to normal.

"By the way, McCormick, I've got something I've been meaning to give you." Getting up, the Judge went into the house and returned several minutes later with two wrapped gifts.

McCormick looked stunned, but yet pleased.

He accepted the first gift and unwrapped it to find the key to the Coyote. Puzzled, he looked up at the Judge.

"I thought since the doctors say you're gonna have to take it easy for awhile, and you shouldn't be driving it anyway…..well, what better time to have all that bodywork taken care of. So I arranged to have the Coyote fixed for you." Embarrassed by the look of gratitude on McCormick's face, he rambled on. "You know, that car looked about as bad as you did when we found you. You've gotta be more careful with it!"

Before McCormick could say anything, he handed him the other present. Unwrapping the second gift, a wide smile spread across his face. In his hands was a hardback copy of a book. "_Jazz, America's music,_" He read the title aloud. "_A guide to the appreciation of Dixieland Jazz_!"

"Well," Hardcastle smiled. "While you're laid up and recuperating, I thought you might like something to read because, NEXT time I go on vacation,….YOU'RE coming with me!"

"Judge," McCormick laughed easily, "After what I've just been through, the New Orleans Jazz Festival is looking a WHOLE lot better!"

Hardcastle clapped his hands together and stood. "Well, what say we fire up the barbecue and have a little cookout for supper tonight!"

"Hardcase?" McCormick looked up from his lounge. "Thanks…I mean thanks for everything."

"Aw, it's nothing, Kid" Hardcastle gently patted his friend on the shoulder, smiled and headed for the grill.

Amid the delightful smells emanating from the grill, McCormick watched the sun set over the ocean, beyond the cliffs, and he realized that for the first time in quite awhile….all was right again at Gull's Way.

The End


End file.
